All Dressed Up With No Place To Go (Version One)
by DianaLecter
Summary: It's finally finished. Chapter 10 is the last.
1. Going Home

All Dressed Up With No Place To Go

Disclaimer: The characters herein are the property of Thomas Harris. No copyright infringement is intended.  
  
~~~  
  
The darkness that greeted her as the Mustang boomed into the driveway made her scowl with discontent. It wasn't to say that she expected the house to radiate in a flamboyant show of lights to see her return for the evening, but for the third consecutive night that week, Clarice Starling grumbled about her forgetfulness in not leaving a light on. In any retrospect, it was distinctively more pleasant to be received by at least some show of warmth and compassion than the cold reality that surrounded her every day.   
  
It might have struck her as odd to experience such a strong repellence to darkness, but she was coming to understand that numerous encounters with a mad psychiatrist scarred her with the ability to diagnose odd behavioral turns. Of course, if the doctor himself were here, he would jump to analyze this newfound paranoia with a childhood trauma she undoubtedly covered in the many years it has taken to heal.   
  
The thought gave Starling reason to snicker at herself as she slid out of the driver's seat, precariously locking the car and slamming the door shut. With a heavy sigh, she turned her eyes to the house ahead of her, wishing, not for the first time, that the duplex beside hers was not vacant. When Ardelia Mapp moved out a little over a year ago, she had not foreseen missing her roommate with such vigor. Others had since come and gone, never staying long enough to develop lasting friendships, none ever bothering.   
  
Over the course of the past year, Starling shielded her displeasure with empty reassurance that she needed this seclusion. It was a smooth cover. After all, with the way the media jumped down her throat at every turn, it was nice to have privacy to turn to at the end of a day.   
  
Smooth cover. Right.   
  
In truth, Starling hated returning to an empty home perhaps even more than she hated going to work. It did little more than remind her how irreversibly complex her life was, and while she never expected anything to be a walk in the park, it was supposed to be easier than this.   
  
Subtle reminders everywhere she went. How now brown cow. How doth the little crocodile improve his shining tail. And pour the waters of the Nile, on every golden scale. How cheer... how cheer... … How cheerfully he seems to grin, how neatly spreads his claws. And welcomes little fishes in, with gently smiling jaws.   
  
Where had she heard that before? It didn't matter.   
  
Yes, yes. It was *supposed* to be easier than this. It was *supposed* to be a lot of things.   
  
But it wasn't. While she knew nothing ever was, it was a reality she preferred not to believe. At least during the day, she could occupy her mind with busywork that took her far from the events of the past few months. In returning to a job she loathed, Starling found it quite opportune to fill her day by inwardly jesting at those who irritated her. She suspected if she loved her job it would take little to distract her.   
  
Activities that required minimal talent or patience often left her with large gaps of unoccupied time, and she was susceptible to forbidden daydreams and drifting desires.   
As opposed to the Bureau that offered no free time, instead insisting on adding to the list. Building and building, piling and piling…over and over and over again.   
  
In the months since her last encounter with Dr. Hannibal Lecter, the Bureau had done everything within its power to limit her voice without neatly snapping the line that managed to keep her in association with their all-powerful name. If that meant a desk full of paperwork intended for a low secretarial position, she would receive it. In many ways, Starling assumed they were trying to scare her away, or, at the very least, bore her to death. While she felt sure it would be easiest to leave and get the inevitable process behind her, she was not the sort of woman to shy from challenge, especially since they pushed her to such lengths. When the truth was, she would not be here if it weren't for their blindness, insensitivity, unwillingness to understand.   
  
The darkness of her home was cold and overbearing. Starling regarded it with a sigh. What awaited her inside made her quiver with failed recognition. At very best, a board game, perhaps a sandwich but more probably a Chinese-take out number. While her days were inactive and dull, she still managed to return home with a familiar sense of fatigue, as though it took great energy to be bored all day.   
  
Now, beginning the pace to the front door, Starling wondered exactly what he would say about this. Over-analysis. With a grim smile, she could nearly hear his voice, the calm questioning in regards to a probable conclusion.   
  
("Were you ever afraid of the dark before, Clarice?")   
  
She shook her head and began fumbling for her keys.   
  
("Aren't we beyond lying to each other? Hmm? Think hard. Consider. Quid pro quo. I tell you things, you tell me things.   
Quid pro quo. Yes or no?")   
  
But there was nothing for him to betray. Take take take to his heart's content, but nothing to tell. After all, what question was worthy, now especially, of asking him?   
  
So she thought hard, and again reached the same answer. Though a smile bore her face, Starling could feel the inward stir of disgust layered in her stomach. What a way to spend an evening. A nonexistent conversation with a fugitive to answer a simple inquiry of her determent to darkness. With some struggle, her key found its way into the lock.   
  
("Oh really? Well, that is interesting. Even following your adventure into the Montana night, Clarice? You never experienced such dread when facing the dark again? In answering the screaming wail of the lambs?")   
  
She paused, drew in a breath, and looked around. No, he wasn't behind her, lurking in shadows or bushes. Starling stood there as alone as she was a minute before. When, granted her limited discussion with the doctor, had she grown to know him so well?   
  
That was simple enough. She never forgot a word he said, an insight he made, a look he portrayed. Not one.   
  
("Yes, I thought so.")   
  
Starling held herself still for a full ten seconds before allowing a humorless chuckle to escape her lips. Without further interruptions, even if they were internal, she pushed the door open and flipped on the interior light. Tender eyes blinked a few times in raw adjustment as the voice in her head returned mercilessly.   
  
("Shall we consider the situation, eh, Clarice? You feared the darkness as a child, after losing the lamb to the hands of the rancher. Years pass and while you still hear the screams of those you can't protect, you face the unknown without a blink. Until now.")   
  
Was it possible that he was just as insufferable, residing as Jiminy Cricket in her head as he was in the flesh?   
Jiminy Cricket. Hah. She had to chuckle at that. Imagining Dr. Lecter singing, 'If You Wish Upon A Star' was sadly entertaining. Sadly for the content - entertaining for she could picture it successfully.   
  
Yeah. Her life was a laugh riot. Hardy har har har.   
  
All right. The basics. She wasn't afraid of the darkness until she lost something to it, long ago, the night of screaming lambs. Now, through the tiresome years of recuperation, through the alleged image of her maturity, and here she was again.   
  
Over-achiever. Starling held her breath and rolled her eyes. This was stupid.   
  
("No, no, no, no. You were doing fine.")   
  
Releasing the breath awkwardly, she snickered at herself and shook her head. "Girl, you really know how to waste a Friday night," she complimented the dead air, wanting to fill the silence with the monotonous nature of her voice instead of allowing Dr. Lecter a chance. Even within her head, he was lethal and merciless, prodding every corner and angle for an answer to the most transverse questions.   
  
However, Starling was far too reserved to plug her ears and scream, "LA! LA! LA!" at the top of her lungs. Therefore, when she stopped speaking, there was little she could do as the doctor's voice returned. Taunting her, imploring her.   
  
("You lost *me* to the darkness recently, Clarice. Don't tell me you have forgotten so quickly.")   
  
Anger and frustration flustered within her for the reference, though she had no one present to aim it at, which aggravated her further. It was difficult justifying her irritation with Dr. Lecter's voice, especially considering he was nowhere near.   
  
Anywhere but here.   
  
Hell. She didn't blame him.   
  
How could she be angry with him over something she made him say in her subconscious? The very knowledge that he *would* say it, were he here, filled as an acceptable excuse. Fair? No. But whatever was these days?   
  
Stumbling through the living quarters, Starling struggled to find the light switches. She suddenly felt plastered, something that surprised her, more or less since she gave up hard drinking after sleeping through an important test in college. Tonight, she hadn't touched anything. Perhaps it was simply the affects of a bad evening.   
  
It didn't begin nor end there. Bad evening, bad day, bad week, bad month, bad year, bad ten years, and so on. The list would never end.   
  
Sighing dejectedly, Starling sank into her armchair, hand immediately rising to caress her brow. One evening, all like the rest. With each passing day, the end seemed closer. The end to what, she was unsure. However, whatever it carried with it, she sensed its approach, its proximity. A mighty hunter stalking its prey, waiting for the calm before pouncing.   
  
_("And now, the end is here. And so I face the final curtain. My friend, I'll say it clear. I'll state my case, of which I'm certain…") _  
  
Starling rolled her eyes again and sat forward. If it wasn't one thing, it was the another.   
  
_("My high is low. I'm dressed up with no place to go. And all I know, is I'm at the start of a pretty big downer…") _  
  
That made her chuckle slightly, and though she was not a fan of random songs running through her head, it was superior, at least for the sake of continued mental stability, than advice from a doctor that resided an undoubted ocean away.   
  
The functions of the human subconscious are not at all patterned, therefore it cannot be said, in reflecting Dr. Lecter's ambiguous whereabouts, why she recalled that she had neglected to pick up the mail outside. Growling to herself, Starling sat forward, half-tempted to simply leave it for tomorrow. She had no desire to abandon the comfort -- so-called, as it was -- of home. How was it that a day of boredom sapped her of more energy than any of those assignments she told herself she enjoyed when she was considered a technical field agent? Either life was slowing to meet her, or she was getting lazy.   
  
Perhaps life was lazily slowing to meet her. As it was, she didn't care to put too much thought into it. Instead, Starling fought to her feet, her muscles stretching heavily. Maybe it would be better to simply quit. Was the Bureau worth this? In growing up, she always learned to see to the end of all dedications. Having sacrificed more than a decade to an institution that clearly didn't care, she wondered if it was time to give in.   
  
Such thoughts were treacherous. In an instant, Starling felt herself pushed against a metaphorical wall for her blasphemous thoughts, a dunce cap fitting squarely on her head. How dare she consider quitting?   
  
_"Starlings aren't quitters," _the ghost of her father scolded.   
  
In another time, perhaps, she would have taken that to heart. Obeyed, lived, done everything within her power to make daddy happy. But there came a time where she no longer cared, where it was no longer worth the effort. "No, no we're not," Starling observed in reply, opening the door once more as her eyes landed on the mailbox, set against a forage of silhouettes. It seemed so far away, and her body screamed its fatigue in protest. Smoothly defying it, she stepped outside and began the journey up her lonely drive. "We're not quitters," she continued, "we just wish we could be."   
  
This was pitiful. In her prime, Starling reflected the ease at which she seized trophies for running marathons in preparation for the training courses at Quantico. She had ventured on assignments that required her to remain attentive and focused for well over forty-eight hours, only to report in the next day and turn to the exercise equipment before sleep ever became a priority. It didn't seem so long ago in many aspects, and reasonably, it shouldn't. After all, that was her definition before reacquainting herself with Dr. Lecter. The definition she allegedly portrayed now. It was hardly four months behind her.   
  
Four months. Just four months. And yet, Starling continued to have these personal one-on-one sessions with the cannibalistic fugitive in her mind. It was simple that way. The dialogue she craved in secret was obtained without any measure of loyalty betrayed to those she had sworn her allegiance with. Her coworkers. Her colleagues. Her friends.   
  
Bullshit.   
  
Query finally reached, Starling emitted another forlorn sigh as she opened the mailbox. It was far too dark to visibly make out its contents, but she saw something relative to her winning a grand sweepstakes and now being the heir to twenty five million dollars. She bristled her annoyance and ignored it, thumbing through the rest.   
  
Bill. Bill. Bill. How did one person accumulate this many bills without actively using her credit card?   
  
The last letter in the stack. Neither bill nor claim to wealth. She held her breath as her fingers delicately brushed the fine texture of the envelope, recognizing the fabric immediately. At that minute, time stilled for Special Agent Starling of the FBI as she delicately flipped the letter over to read the name standing proud on the front.   
  
An elegant, brush script that she knew too well, spelling out one word in familiar appreciation.   
  
She forgot she was holding her breath and released it hurriedly, producing a sound relative to a cry, though she wasn't sure if it was intentional. There was no question in her mind it was authentic -- doubting its origin was futile. Despite that, Starling shook her head in disbelief, not willing to grasp what she held very tangibly in her grasp. As she debated a sensible course of action, her astonishment soared, escalating to heights never before experienced until she emanated a heavy sigh. "This…this *can't* be happening," she decided, her thumb caressing the ink that spelled out her name proudly, boldly, in no attempt to disguise the identity of her correspondent. They were far beyond that, if they were ever there to begin with. "Again."


	2. The Letter

It couldn't be happening, but it was.   
  
In her hands sat a very tangible letter, inside her house, a waiting fireplace. Tomorrow, she would encounter a Bureau full of greedy, squabbling delegates, people determined to be the end of her, who would kill to glance at the sort of information she held. Over and over again, her eyes traced the name, proud on the expense of the envelope. One word. Claaaarrrriiiiicceee. It only took looking at it to hear his voice, and it was the only script she ever read that reflected any tone.   
  
There were many things that were only applicable when Dr. Lecter was concerned, but Starling preferred not to think about it.  
  
So what was it to be? If she opened it, she incriminated herself, if she burned it she would kill herself. Should she turn it in…well...she wouldn't turn it in. That option was safely ruled out of probability. Despite her alleged position within the Bureau, she would never again willfully do anything to assist their hunt for him. Not after all she had suffered, all she had endured.   
  
All right. Read or burn it.  
  
Starling growled her frustration, mimicked by the quietness surrounding her. Silent curses tore at her vocals, things demanding to be released. Wasn't this supposed to be behind her? Recuperating from the lake house was enough. What right did he have to contact her now? Now that she was in the process – however tedious – of getting her life back together?  
  
That was irrelevant and wrong. She sighed her recognition, brief fury evaporating. To deny her relief in seeing this was to deny the color of the sky. The letter carried only her name – no address or return address. He had delivered it in person. Did that mean he was near at this moment? Watching her? Starling pursed her lips but didn't look around. If he was watching her, she wasn't sure that she cared to *know* just yet. One step at a time.  
  
With another sigh, she looked back to her house, alight now with lamps, front door halfway open. How was it that it still looked bleak to her, perhaps even more so than when she arrived home?  
  
Then his voice was with her again. Teasing. Taunting.   
  
("Were you ever afraid of the dark before, Clarice?")  
  
"There's a first time for everything," she muttered in response, eyes falling once more to the letter in her hand. The envelope seemed to ignite, burning, grinding against her skin. It begged to be opened.  
  
The rest of her parcels were forgotten, abandoned in the mailbox. In a flash, the outside world was unimportant, dreary, shut off to her. It was only Starling and the letter. Starling and her connection to him. Hurriedly, anxious now, she bustled to the door, allowing no time for reconsideration; eager to shut out the sound of his voice speaking sentences she constructed and read the bona fide article. After all, it was most obvious that she wouldn't be rid of him tonight – whichever way.  
  
All that and more, she simply couldn't dispose of the letter without knowing what it said.  
  
Reaching her door, Starling turned once more to the darkness, eyes dimming a bit. She searched bluntly for a figure of his height, dancing eyes, anything to suggest he was outside. Watching her. However, she knew he had the intelligence to evacuate the proximity once his package was delivered. There was that chance she would alert the authorities. That option they both knew, well in advance, she wouldn't choose. Not without reading its content first.  
  
It was hardly orderly, but Starling was beyond following the manual.   
  
When her eyes registered the negative results, she sighed and nodded her acknowledgement to the shadows. An inkling of irritation coursed through her once more. This was so entirely typical of him. Wait until she was settled before striking. Allow her enough air to breathe the scent of normality, even if she hated the thought, before seizing it from her grasp. Even if she did nothing about the letter, folded it away and forced it from her mind, there was that part of her, that very real part that would always know. And despite all her accomplishments in the future, what she might regain in the Bureau, it would follow her forever.  
  
Of course, that was a much broader allegation than a simple letter. That was life in general. Life constructed and based on that morning she went to interview him. Where it all began and ended for her.  
  
To the darkness, to him, should he be near, she whispered a defeated, "Well, I hope you're happy," before closing the door.  
  
Once concealed inside her home, Starling had to bite her lip hard to refrain from tearing the envelope open. She vowed to at least make it to her living room, where the fireplace was handy. There was that chance he would infuriate her to the point of needing to cast his words into an inferno. While she was no stranger to mockery, there was something about it coming from his mouth that made it much more difficult to face. To own up to. She wanted to say that was due to his record, that anyone *that* mad must really have a point if they found terrific flaw in her character. But that wasn't it. That wasn't even apart of it. Through all her life, she had endured ridicule and condemnation, but she faced it, accepted it. The only time it really burned was in standing before his cell those ten years ago, watching this person whom she had just met tear her down to a level that was so frighteningly close to the truth it was difficult to breathe.  
  
His mockery was harsh because it struck close to home. Because it was beyond name-calling and wild allegations.   
  
Exercising every nerve of restraint, Starling walked with unbelievable patience to the chair she had relaxed in just after returning home. Before she remembered the mail awaited outside. Before she was confronted with this issue. With this reoccurring matter that just wouldn't die.  
  
Once she found a comfortable position, she lost her patience. Though careful to not rip the envelope more than necessary in preservation of the letter, she let out an aggravated growl as it battled with her, as all writings of importance do, wanting to remain in its sheathing to drive her to further lunacy.   
  
A thought arose in the midst of this, and she rolled her eyes at herself.  
  
("You shouldn't touch it. Forensics will never forgive you.")  
  
"Fuck forensics," she spat. "What have they done for me lately?"  
  
He would love this. Not a word had been read, and she was already protecting his freedom, even if she didn't realize it.   
  
Once the letter was free and in her grasp, Starling forced herself to calm, mildly ashamed at her eagerness. With a slow breath, she leaned into the cushionary material of her chair, collected herself, and finally brought it to eyesight and began to read.  
  
_You look well, Clarice, if you'll permit me to observe.  
  
Now, don't go about getting yourself worked up. Rest assured I am most certainly out of the area. In studying your current work patterns, I speculate you received this around eight o'clock, perhaps later. So, if you felt so compelled, you can ease your guilt. There is no need to send for the hunting dogs, or attention from your friends in the Bureau.   
  
With the risk of eluding a preamble, I will merely state there are several points I would like to highlight. I believe we are beyond lengthy introductions and explanations. Would you agree? I think so.  
  
Washington is lovely this time of the year. You can nearly smell conspiracy in the air. I suppose you're tolerant to its taste now, aren't you? You coat your lungs with it every day. I admit some time has passed, but not much. A few months does not constitute in adequate passing for two old friends whom had not seen each other in a decade. Not the way it used it, anyway. Rumors come and go, Clarice. We've had our share.  
  
As I predicted, people returned to their original hypothesis. The one I mentioned in Memphis all that time ago. Do you remember, Clarice? People will say we're in love. Why, they ask, did she let the monster get away? Why didn't she seize her waiting firearm upstairs instead of trusting her abilities in a rather objectionable snow-shaker? You've heard it all, though. I regret to inform you I was not in the proximity during the time of your strenuous questioning, though I did catch as much as I could through the convenience of headlines and various news programs. You looked fetching, Clarice, though the camera hardly does you justice.  
  
Your morals betrayed you. In questioning your reason, the answer you have relied on since its awakening to your conscious no longer has merit. While I find it admirable that you have a fetish of saving any creature from torture, as well as beyond grateful, it didn't and will not rest with them. The storm has passed, yes, but with what consequences? Simply, Clarice, they didn't see me as a lamb to save, even a black one. Where would the ignominy be in that, to either of us? No. All they saw and continue to see is a federal officer who risked her morals, career, and life to rescue a true 'baddie.' Whatever you further accomplish in that esteemed secretarial job they have so thoughtfully granted will always be overshadowed. By me.   
  
Does that burn you, Clarice? To know you've sacrificed everything only to lose it anyway? Now what are you left with? Hmmm?  
  
Did you still entertain the idea that the FBI will doctor your career? Answer yourself truthfully, Special Agent Starling. I suppose you could turn this letter in and pray for reinstatement, even if it is a price you wish not to pay. I would hope you have the sensibility not to repeat mistakes.   
  
You didn't believe me so much the first time. Perhaps you will now. You believe in the oath you took. They don't. You believe it's your duty to protect the sheep. They don't. It is an institution that doesn't love you back, despite the sweat and tears and blood you've poured over it, for it, in the honor of its all-powerful title. For that motto only recite in faith of its power.   
  
Despite all you have sacrificed, lost, given, had confiscated, they will never see what I see. Does that burn you as well, Clarice? Persistency in women does not earn a reputation for determination. Persistency, you see, is a very unattractive feature when it radiates from the wrong person. As you deduced sometime ago, your gender decided that for you long before coming to work for the FBI.  
  
Yes…I think it burns.  
  
You are used to this, though, aren't you? It's all routine. In and out every day. Your capabilities exceed levels any of them dare dream, and yet you're restricted for one fundamental consistency. Me. I am always there, aren't I, Clarice? I was there for ten years without having to be there at all. Without any immediate influence. It's no wonder the swarming rumors and snide remarks have not dwindled. You were spared, marking you to the world as my weakness. Bearing that in mind, this is new for me as well. I spent years developing a reputation of uncompassionate savagery, tarnished all by one stolen kiss, even if you neglected to jot that down in your statement. You are my Achilles' heel, my honey in the lion.   
  
That being said, I will merge to my true motive.  
  
Clarice, you worry me. In observing you for a few, and I assure you, only a few days, you seem to be overshadowed by ghosts. Beyond the restrictions and commentary of the public and your so-called superiors at the office. Though I dare not venture a guess on what this prohibition you've encountered might entail, I will make an offer. I ask you to at least consider before rejecting.   
  
I want to help you, Clarice. Help you sort through all these little miseries life has so thoughtfully deposited in your lap. However, my offer contains certain aspects pertaining to location that I cannot forfeit through the written word. Consider these thoughts. Should you decide to forgo, I understand. It is easiest to wish our troubles away, and while it has never proven successful, I know we have been through more than humanly possible together. One more confrontation might rightfully be the end for both of us. However, it is a chance I am willing and rather eager to take.  
  
Refer to my older directions by which to contact me, should you reach for contact. We'll have to avert pennames, of course. Shall we say, David and Goliath, speaking of weaknesses? That should elude suspicion, at least for the time being.   
  
Society isn't easy on us, is it, Clarice? I must wonder when such mediocre matters became business of the public.   
  
My own persistency matches yours, you'll see. A fellow just can't say no when the remuneration is too delightfully rewarding to dismiss.   
  
Find where you are, my dear, and see whether or not I neighbor you in intentions. Reflect on these things and decide for yourself. We will go from there.  
  
Regards,  
  
Hannibal Lecter, MD _  
  
  
  


* * * 


	3. The Decision

Drawing in a deep breath, Starling puffed out her cheeks and sat back. In the air, she sensed the stirrings of a headache, one of the same she was becoming more familiar with. She released a bottled sigh seconds later, raising the letter once more to eye level to reread it. As was the case with the letter he sent in the afterward of the Evelda Drumgo affair, the second time through wasn't nearly as affective as the first. Indeed, she heard his voice, but it wasn't as haunting. As punctuating. As definitive.   
  
But the words were still there. Unchanged.  
  
So he wanted to help her. Hah! Ten years destroying her, and now he wanted to help. Help with what, dare she ask? Though it was something she knew she would never wish, the best thing he could do to be of any assistance was present her with cuffed wrists.   
  
Yes, but what then?  
  
There were certain things she needed to consider before arriving at any form of conclusion. Firstly, the need to make an immediate choice was withdrawn, as he was no longer in the area. Though Starling should be dismayed, she found herself oddly relieved. Simply with that confirmed knowledge, it removed the burden of guilt she would inevitably face in approaching days. For the minute, she had no pressure to jump up and seize her guns, phone the Bureau and alert them that the man they had spent ten years in search of was in the area, even if she hadn't intended to anyway.  
  
Of course, she had no real reason to believe Dr. Lecter. The implication of trust was lain out before her, and without lending time for pause in consideration; Starling discarded the notion that he might have lied to save himself the hassle. If anything, he would have outlined his nearness in bold lettering to test her resolve. To see where she stood.  
  
Despite that, Starling had known well in advance, well before opening the letter, that she would not deliver it to the Bureau. That revelation was made, acknowledged, and made again. If he were watching, he would know this by the torn envelope that would make its way to her dresser drawer rather than some laboratory.   
  
Back to the letter.   
  
In it, he ridiculed the obvious, noting the way people were reviving old theories about their very different relationship. Starling sighed, revisited by memories and accusations following the rescue of Catherine Baker Martin, mostly off the tongue of Paul Krendler. The pain again struck in its glorious familiarity at the suggestion that she wasn't talented enough to place the pieces together. However ridiculous the indictments were, people wanted to believe them. Wanted to believe that she, a woman – and a young one at that – could not have possibly drawn that much out of a madman with nothing material in return. No one was concerned with the very blatant fact that she had little time to entice the doctor during her visit in Memphis, and furthermore, that she was under observation in the duration of the interview.  
  
People suspected her because _she came because she wanted to. _  
  
("People will say we're in love.")  
  
And now here she was, ten years digging herself out of that trench, and people were pointing the same fingers, even without Krendler's prompting. Why, they wonder, did she resort to such a harmless and domestic weapon when a perfectly useful gun sat waiting at her disposal? No need to review her conscious state at the time, no need to question the handiness of anyone – including federal agents – while under the influence of powerful morphine. All they saw was a woman notoriously involved with Dr. Hannibal Lecter who refused to draw her most valuable weapon against him, instead resorting to a snow shaker, later a harmless kitchen knife, and finally a candlestick.   
  
In the aftermath, Starling defended her name courageously, though she was horribly afraid her self-control would crumple. To the reporters that she continuously avoided, to the microphones she shoved from her mouth, to interviews and letters of inquiry she decided to answer, daily she felt the impulse to turn around and scream at them: "I DIDN'T TAKE MY GUN BECAUSE I KNEW I'D HAVE TO USE IT! BECAUSE I KNEW I COULDN'T KILL HIM!"  
  
Gun, no. She wouldn't, she *couldn't* kill him. But she could seize cuffs to take him in, hand him to his tormenters, and watch as they killed him for her.  
  
No. Starling saw the stupidity in that now, and her lack of insight made her doubt her resolve. It was obvious to her that she couldn't do that either. She wouldn't do it – she wouldn't turn in the letter. To have him captured at her hand was no better than blowing his head off.   
  
And next? Lowering her eyes to the letter once more, she valuated the next paragraph. _'Your morals betrayed you.' _  
  
He wasn't a lamb to save. He was the enemy. He stood against everything she affirmed her undying allegiance with, and yet, he was her victim. The reason to provoke a one-person raid on a rich loony tune, risk her career and life to save her infamous nemesis. Good versus evil. Jesus versus Satan. Herself versus the man she could not kill. The man that – incidentally – could not kill her.  
  
Did it burn her? Slightly, but more for her reasons than theirs. What they said, suggested, or directly accused didn't affect her anymore. The truth, she was discovering, was more difficult to fight than something left to be discovered. Self-evaluation. Why was she here? Why her? Why anything?  
  
To the letter again. Would the FBI doctor her career?   
  
Starling bit her lip, considering, before gentle ripples claimed her body as she dissolved into humorless chuckles.  
  
_Yeeeeaaahhhh…that was good. _  
  
Casting her eyes downward once more, she continued to analyze. Yes, he was there with her every day, had been for a decade. Following her, poking fun at others with her, making subtle suggestions as she studied a recent homicide, giving her blessed clues when no other voice rang with logic. To say Catherine Martin was the only life he helped save was terribly misleading. There wasn't one case she didn't turn to him to for guidance, always surprised how his assistance, even in her cavity, always seemed to be that missing link. The final piece of the puzzle.   
  
Snickering, she heard herself speaking with Barney. Thirty seconds a day indeed.   
  
And now she approached the end, where he offered his assistance. His assistance in what? Did she need him for anything? Was there something he knew that she didn't? A new serial killer on the verge of abducting some lamb to save?  
  
Rather unlikely. She knew better than that.  
  
A stolen kiss. Even now, her lips burned. And that was what he wanted. A forever reminder, a keepsake. Something to make her ignite every time she thought of it, to reflect on those final seconds in personal scrutiny, to wonder why she reacted – or didn't react – the way she did. Such coldness, such hatred, such confusion, such…sadness.  
  
He was leaving her, and she knew it. Leaving her to possibly never return.  
  
Starling growled her aggravation and jumped up. Drawing in harsh breaths, she considered the letter, feeling the warmth of the fire pulsing, taunting, begging. Despite everything, despite her raw desire to follow inner ambitions and do as he asked, there was that little reminder of her duty. Her annoyingly persistent duty.  
  
_Burn it…burn it…burn it… _  
  
For a long time, she watched the parchment without seeing, the ink swirling into a mass jubilation. Fabulously written incoherent lettering. Her eyes dared it to jump from her hand and land carelessly in the fire. To make her decision for her, for she knew, despite her actions, that she would regret whatever path she chose to follow.   
  
_Burn it…burn it…burn it… _  
  
But she didn't.   
  
There was no surprise in her revolution. In those brief seconds, considering, deciding her fate, Starling saw the walkway to her home and the pledge of forged security it offered. Her career, her wonderfully falsified career. That which she slaved, sweated, and bled over. That which destroyed her. Trailing up the walkway, aligned with shadows, of specters, of things she outlined but couldn't see.  
  
The darkness where lambs continued to scream, but not for her assistance. Now, she knew, they screamed for him. He, who caused her such turmoil, who destroyed and created her in one blow, who bestowed the fame she never wanted with headlines that disgraced her name, even if it wasn't his intent. He whom she needed with or without merit, with or without reason. For, in the end, what was Clarice Starling without Hannibal Lecter? One half of the cosmic puzzle. One half of a headline. One half of the breaking story, even if her most recent ignominy failed to involve him.   
  
Again, she flashed to Evelda Drumgo, recalling the media coverage she watched in the afterward of John Brigham's funeral.  
  
("Agent Starling received some measure of celebrity ten years ago when she interviewed lethal madman Hannibal 'The Cannibal' Lecter.")  
  
What possible relevance did that have in the fish market shooting? None. But he was always there. Her other half. The missing piece. Apart of her. Because, like it or not, no one knew Clarice Starling existed if Hannibal Lecter wasn't involved, and vice versa. How much interest had the public had in him prior to the events at Chesapeake? How much fuss had risen out of the charges made against her in Memphis?  
  
She was the beauty to his beast, or the beast to his beauty. Romanticized to the wazoo, despite the mediocre attempts made to keep her relationship with Dr. Lecter from turning sexual in the media. 'Bride of Frankenstein' indeed. The vampire's mistress. How remarkably un-amusing.   
  
What now? What was left of her?  
  
And she knew. She knew she had to contact him. David and Goliath. The David to his Goliath. The only one that possessed the secret to his weakness, that could sling that deadly stone to destroy him, whether or not it was her intent to do so. Starling smiled inwardly at the thought, her hand wavering a bit as she released a breath. The fireplace seemed to crackle as she moved away, sensing its loss of sacrifice.   
  
The names had a higher meaning, too. Nothing was ever one-sided in their perversely dependable relationship. She was similarly the Goliath to his David. No one else could devalue her and make it sting, tear her up efficiently and make her believe it.   
  
Contact him. What else was there? Starling sighed, not knowing how or why. Her motives were unclear to her, what she hoped to accomplish by responding to his offer was ambiguous. To talk? To resolve these petty issues, for what they were worth? To decide what to do with her career? To…  
  
To give him her half of that kiss and make *his* lips burn.  
  
No. Sharply, she shook her head. Despite her revelations, Starling wasn't quite prepared to make any sort of admittance that required the release of repressed feelings. Feelings that she firstly denied to repress. It was too soon for that yet.  
  
But she did yearn for his guidance, his advice, his insight on her current situation. Beyond the vague points highlighted on a letter. She wanted to converse. Nothing had ever seemed so important to her. Afterward, she would have to decide.   
  
_Decisions, decisions… _  
  
Submitting her answer to the requested sources took little more than a visit to select Internet sites. David to Goliath. From there, all she could do was wait. Wait, and hope.  
  
  
  
  



	4. The Response

For the first few days, the only reply to her treacherous answer to Dr. Lecter's inquiry was the expected waves of guilt and remorse, made no easier by their predictability. In deciding to deceive the Bureau, Starling acknowledged the impending culpability her overly religious conscience would issue. Despite her inner break from any form of deity, her subconscious remained faithful to those values entwined with her at early age.  
  
No matter what the Bureau did to upset her, it in no way excused reaching out to the centerpiece of the Ten Most Wanted list, yearning for personal-gain and not the monster's capture.   
  
The days that followed were hard, perhaps accentuated by her deceit. As she walked the halls, she felt sure that everyone was glaring at her with unforgiving eyes. Eyes that implored to know why. _Why _had she betrayed them again? All for the sake of the madman. The monster.   
  
Of course, no one could know of her dishonor. If the FBI had reason to suspect her, they would bring her in for questioning. Starling knew from experience that it was not in their custom to sit around if someone was assumed to be involved in activities that made the culprit's prolonged career in the Bureau a distinct impossibility. Especially if the matter concerned her. No one in the Big Office was afraid to approach her about an issue concerning illegal involvement in anything related to Hannibal Lecter. The largest step they took without her knowledge or consent was monitoring her mail. No, Starling knew once they picked up a scent, the Bureau's bloodhounds liked to strike while the trail was hot. Unless she saw them advancing, she felt reasonably safe.   
  
Inwardly, Starling toyed with the idea that nothing in her life would come easy. It was easy to place blame on the uncontrollables, those things she could watch but never touch. After all, as an orphan, it was prearranged that everything bore a heavy price.   
  
At that, she forced herself to a grin as a ridiculous thought rose in her head.   
  
_("It's the hard-knock life for us! It's the hard-knock life for us!") _  
  
After a few days, receiving no reply or any indication that Dr. Lecter relayed her message, Starling felt her frustration building. Suffering from guilt was one thing, suffering without cause was damn near intolerable. Absently, she entertained the thought that this was just a wile of the doctor to see where she stood, if she regretted the decision she so vocally screamed at the lake house. Perhaps he would stand back now and laugh at her, all the while refusing her change of heart.  
  
Of course, Starling had not suggested in the placed article that it was her intention to change her mind. It was merely an answer, something she would have to dwell on for future developments.   
  
Again and again, she referred to the letter for reassurance that her actions were not in vain. Similarly, again and again, she cursed herself for her doubts. It was wide knowledge, even to those who were not familiar with Dr. Lecter's methods, that he never spoke a dishonest word. The delay in his response meant something. Perhaps he was waiting to scope out her motives, to see if she had truly noble intentions. To make sure that her superiors were not looming over her shoulder, masterfully manipulating her as they did all their puppets.  
  
That, in all logicality, seemed most probable.  
  
Though clever, Starling at first feared that the pennames used in the articles were too obvious. Of course, everything is obvious when a risk of being exposed is placed at stake. She thought of her first viewing of 'The Sixth Sense,' how she, unlike the fellow audience members, clued in immediately that Bruce Willis was no different than the other specters haunting the child. She recalled how she thought it unwise to have Haley Joel Osment describe what the problem was with the camera so obviously focused on the dead man himself. And, with some arrogance, Starling reflected how she realized by the number of gasps toward the end that no one else had the slightest idea. It was that sort of perception that made her forget that not all people focused so closely to detail.   
  
No one noticed. She wondered if they even checked.  
  
The message, to her credit, was brief, having been trimmed in several revisions. It seemed odd to edit something that was so small, but she did, again and again until it was satisfactory. And even after the magazine printed, she made note with some disappointment the things she wished she could go back and change. Starling wanted to sound like a person trying to sound like her, not herself trying to sound like someone else. After rationalizing that – thoroughly confusing herself more than once – she gave up and conceded the rag. It really didn't matter what she put, as long as it clearly defined her reply and acceptance of his offer.  
  
Still, in looking over it, she felt a pang of inferiority. Starling was no writer, and she would be the first to admit this. Even in skimming the text, she clearly read her lack of prolific speech. Talking came much easier for her, and she would be glad when the opportunity to more conventional means of discussion were available.  
  
The article read:  
  
_Goliath: Message received. Offer accepted. Contact me for further arrangements. – David. _  
  
Starling had spent a good hour trying to decipher which one of them was David. After referring to the letter time and time again, she made her choice. Now, in the panicky aftermath of her ruse, she wondered if _that _was the reason he had neglected to answer. At the mere suggestion that she was dominator, the one who overpowered him, who made him fall to his knees.  
  
But that was nothing he hadn't already stated in the letter, in his own fine copperplate handwriting.   
  
Her reluctance to settle with the thought that his word had not transformed to read something else entire irritated her. It was only a matter of patience, something they both knew she lacked in abundance.  
  
And so, here she was, doing quiet office work, occasionally sent to deliver a message to John Brigham's replacement at the gun range. Every time she retreated, she felt something singe deeply and refused to acknowledge it as loss. The office formerly occupied by Jack Crawford was avoided at all costs. Starling felt abandoned by every reliability once held at Quantico. Ardelia Mapp was gone, transferred and making wedding arrangements. John Brigham, dead and buried. And her mentor, the one person she depended on the most when times trying, reunited with his deceased wife, but leaving her blind with no dog to guide her.   
  
Though, Starling reflected, she was at times glad that Crawford was gone, that he had died before seeing his favorite student blossom only to wither and lose faith in everything he taught. Before he saw her reach for his enemy in a plea for assistance. In need.  
  
Without the support of her closest friends, she felt very much like a rebel in enemy territory. The words of console offered by Clint Pearsall were empty and rehearsed. Though she respected and regarded him with some gratitude, Starling did not miss the disappointment in his tone. The feeling was mutual. Her disappointment with everything she sacrificed herself for was unbearable.  
  
And still, she felt guilt. Guilt for betraying that which she hated.  
  
At night, she returned home to the comfort of hard liquor and continuous Abba, wishing over and over again that she were again young, sweet, and only seventeen. Despite everything, it seemed to cheer her up, if only briefly.  
  
It was around this time that Starling buried herself in the literary world. Having been long disgusted with reality, she turned to novels that took her to places where there was no FBI. Philip Pullman's The Golden Compass was one of her favorites, and she was still trying to conjure an opinion on Lord of the Flies. It was one of the novels she intentionally didn't read in high school.   
  
A month eventually passed and no response from Dr. Lecter. Starling routinely checked her mail, surveyed the landscape before retiring for the evening, and lingered at home a little longer than usual before going to work.   
  
One month – then everything changed.  
  
On a Monday morning, Starling's personal least favorite day of the week, she phoned in and informed Pearsall that she wouldn't be arriving until that afternoon, that she was detained with a splitting headache. Though he attempted to sound concerned, she could tell he was relieved that he wouldn't have to put up with her wealth of pessimism for a few more hours. No questions asked.  
  
In truth, Starling did indeed have a headache, but nothing that wouldn't be solved in a half hour with two aspirin. These days, she searched for any voluble excuse to refrain from facing those who accused her of conspiring while they busied in corners to plot her own demise.  
  
Incidentally, the mail arrived earlier that day than normal. In later years, she would question the convenience of this, but found at the minute she hadn't the strength.  
  
When she opened her mailbox, Starling felt her pulse race and her eyes widen. At long last, she recognized the silky envelope that only he used. Fine script was on the front, this time carrying her address and a stamp. It indicated that he was located in Branson, Missouri, but she knew that was the last place he would turn willingly, outside Vegas.   
  
Like before, Starling discarded all other mail, regardless of bills, holiday cards, or anything else of genuine importance. Instead, she hurried inside; exercising none of the restraint she held the last time such a document arrived at her disposal. It didn't strike her as curious that not once had the thought of wearing latex gloves while studying this in a lab occur to her. Not once did the idea that she should turn the new letter in flutter in her mind. Wasting little time with scrutiny of the envelope, she tore it open, careful not to rip the linen fiber paper, sank to her chair and began reading.  
  
_Clarice, you amuse me. Are you growing restless? _  
  
His mocking was tolerated. If he had earned anything in the past few months, it was that.  
  
_In watching you the past few days – inadvertently admitting, I suppose, my brief return to Washington – I have concluded that you are a woman bored with the world. Bored, and apprehensive. You peer over your shoulder so frequently that one might suspect you were checking to make sure your shadow is still behind you. It's there, Clarice, as it has always been, even if you cannot see it.   
  
Process that a minute. Chew on your lip, as you do when you think strenuously, similarly under the assumption that no one is watching. The motion is terribly provocative.   
  
Studying you while you do not know you are being watched is, ashamedly, the most fun I've had in years. The unveiled chamber of your emotions, what you conceal from the public eye, is most exquisite. I allow you your privacy, of course, and I assure you that I have not reduced myself to the likes of a Peeping Tom. A glance here or there will satisfy me temporarily. Compensation for so many years apart, you see.   
  
But we're not here to discuss me, are we, Clarice? You contacted me in response to my offer of help.   
  
You understand, of course, that I could not respond immediately. Firstly, I had to stretch the window between letters, just in case you felt a streak of unavoidable loyalty and felt compelled to confess your sins to the great whip master in the Bureau. Secondly, I wanted to watch you. Your article was most liberating. Too good to be true, you might say. I had to decide for myself if it was worth believing.  
  
From what I have seen, Clarice, I trust your honesty. Thus far. I believe you are clever enough not to toy with me.  
  
So it is help you seek? We want empathy in our lives so terribly, do we not? To the extent of reaching for the enemy in some reassurance that you have not lost yourself.   
  
These next steps are risky on my part. However, if second thoughts become unbearable, rest assured that I can easily slip out of reach. Understand, Clarice, that if helping you constitutes turning myself in, you are decidedly on your own. I will not face life in a concrete box, nor will I find my fate chosen by bureaucrats.   
  
I suppose you can guess that as you read this, I have again left Washington. As much as I would like to, visiting you in the heart of the land where I am sought the most is not the best move – for either of our benefits – that I could make at the time. If it is a civil conversation you want, which would delightful, I admit, I advise that you rent a car and make reservations on the first flight to London. Don't fret the cost – I will compensate whatever is spent.  
  
However, the reservations are a diversion. Should our dialogue exceed days, we will want to be one step ahead of your friends in the FBI. Enclosed in the envelope, you will find a separate identity for Mrs. Natalie Campbell. You will leave the car rented under your name in the airport parking lot and point the second vehicle toward Philadelphia. Quite a drive, I know, but you have accomplished worse, haven't you? Either way, you will not arrive there the first night.  
  
Along the way is a very small town called Shelbyville. It offers little more to the traveler than a fill-up station and a phone booth. At precisely five p.m tomorrow evening, the phone at the local 7/11 will ring three times, stop, and two minutes later, ring once more. Pick up on the second ring, and I will deliver further instructions.  
  
I do hope you realize why such lengths are required. Should you decide against coming, I understand completely. But Clarice, you did reach to me for help. I am offering that promised empathy, that blessed escape. You may stay as long as you like, once you arrive at the final destination, and leave whenever you feel you have obtained all you need of my advice. I will not make an ungentlemanly advance without your explicit permission, though that is not to say that I expect it. I long ago learned not to predict your actions. Rather than concede defeat when you pull a fast one (which is very typical of you. Delightfully so) even without realizing it, I have discovered it is far more pleasant to sit back and watch whatever is destined to unfold.  
  
I await, Clarice. See you soon.   
  
Fondest regards,  
  
– H – _  
  
  


* * * 

  
  
  



	5. Travel Arrangements

(This particular chapter coincides with the end of chapter four. Chapter six to both parts of the split series will be posted as time allows.)  
  
~~~  
  
Whatever Starling thought she expected with his reply, it most certainly was not that.  
  
As she sat back, biting her lip in thought - subconsciously following his instructions - she allowed herself to consider exactly what it was that she had thought he would do in response to her message. Though now, reflecting, a letter was the most probable answer. She supposed she halfway anticipated a visit in person. However, reviewing the written word, she knew that was foolish. After all, he had no reason to trust her misgivings, her noble- intentions. At this stage, she didn't trust herself. Starling was not known for her treachery, her double-crossing, her willingness to sneak behind the back of the Almighty Bureau and perform acts that would make her father frown in disappointment.  
  
Two letters, neither of which she would turn in. Neither of which she *could* turn in. The first was too old. To submit it for inspection would place herself under the microscope, get her seated across the boss's table once more while they prodded her to explain why she kept it to herself for so long. No, no, that wouldn't do.  
  
This one she had to keep for obvious reasons. He made sure of that in referring, directly, to her deception. Of course, Starling didn't know if that was to further ensure his own safety, to taunt her, or merely out of reference. The doctor often had multiple motives, and it might be that all this was merely a hefty coincidence.  
  
In the light everything, these were not new thoughts. Starling had wrestled with her conscience for weeks now, tormenting herself, forcing her revelations to clarity with the false protection of disco and late-night monster movies.  
  
Now for the choices lying ahead. Dr. Lecter allowed little time for consideration. If she wanted his guidance, it was now or never. With his instructions, she had time to pack, consult a map, then she better be on her way.  
  
There was always that safe option, the one that screamed at her to forget it, place the letter in her nightstand drawer, or better yet, the fireplace. Starling, presented with the idea, nearly laughed out loud. Somewhere, even if it was unacknowledged, she knew that this was a possibility. Whether it was his presence here or her requested audience elsewhere, it really amounted to little. She would still be in the company of her so-called enemy.  
  
The truth was, she was craving dialogue. Discussion. Someone to vent on. An escape, as it was. And, putting all prior restraints and former loyalties aside, Starling had to concede that having the offered respondent carry his name and face was an added bonus.  
  
Starling reflected it was too late in her dealings with Dr. Lecter to deny how much she enjoyed their discussions, transactions, various trades, and so forth. If ever there was a time, it was too late. Long ago, they established that she would go out of her way to speak with him.  
  
And, truth be said, Philadelphia *was* out of her way. Unreasonably so? Her jaw tightened as she considered her options. The FBI, day in and day out, or a free analysis of her various psychological issues - admitted into tangibility or not - by her favorite fugitive.  
  
That arose another question. Was she going just for answers, to spill what was bothering her and discover the uncovered quirks, or seek that blessed confrontation? The closure their former meeting cheated of them?  
  
Starling shook her head and discarded the query. The reasons behind going didn't matter. This was what she wanted, what she told him she wanted. Despite motives, however deeply rooted, she knew what she had to do. Merely the suggestion of getting away from Pearsall for a few days made her soar with the hope that she might live to see forty candles on her birthday cake. At this rate, she would almost settle for thirty-five.  
  
So that was it, then. Decision made.  
  
With the burden off her chest, Starling allowed herself a small, taut smile. Tomorrow, she would force herself up early. Tomorrow, she would not point her Mustang to work. Tomorrow, she would escape the city that sapped the life out of her, replacing it with a bland nothingness. Tomorrow, she would do something wholly for herself. Tomorrow, she would be in the presence of Dr. Hannibal Lecter.  
  
  
  
*        *        *  
  
  
  
At precisely 5:15 the following morning, Starling's alarm clock buzzed with annoying precision. It was her custom - at least in the recent - to spend several ten-minute cycles battling with the sleep button. Never before the affair at the lake house had she suffered with sleep as she did currently, never before had she dreaded going to work. In some radical attempt to solve the conflict, she set the radio station to one of those country dials that rang so much of old West Virginia that she was certain it would force her awake.  
  
Plan A failed. The routine beatings of the snooze bar continued to no avail. While Starling was no therapist, she recognized a habit of excessive sleep to be one of those signifying depression.  
  
However, today was different.  
  
While she remained immobile in bed, Starling was fully awake ten minutes before the alarm sounded. Her mind was not jumbled, and surprisingly, no second thoughts tickled her to further exhaustion. No, she had worn all options to defeat the night before. At the foot of her bed waited a suitcase, not overly packed, but sufficient enough to last her a few days.  
  
When at last the country music burst into the dead silence, she forced herself to her feet. Ordinarily, it took several cups worth of scalding coffee to get her moving, but she found it wasn't needed today. Starling felt if she consumed any caffeine, she might rightfully leap out of her skin.  
  
By 5:45, she was out the front door, suitcase stored safely in the trunk. The streets of Washington were never deserted, despite the hour, and she saw clearly that this morning was no different. However, the traffic was minor and tolerable. It wouldn't take too long to get to the airport.  
  
In the car, she occupied herself with idle questions. Absently, she wondered if there was indeed a flight to London scheduled to depart that day, and likewise knew there had to be, otherwise he wouldn't have suggested it. The silence annoyed her, and while she yearned for some music, she felt obligated to listen to the engine hum. Knowing that she was committing her first true offense in her career, running off to the madman without any reason other than personal benefit, Starling found herself tense at the threat of being captured. Though she knew it was foolish to speculate a random policeman would pull her over on a whim, she still wanted to be in the position to hear any forewarning sirens.  
  
The first stages of Dr. Lecter's plan went off without a hitch. A seat in coach on the 9:00 am London flight was reserved in her name, as was a rental car she wouldn't use. From a separate company, Starling withdrew the flawlessly constructed identities for Natalie Campbell and managed a second vehicle. A Buick. She watched nervously as the rosy-cheeked and suspiciously perky tenant studied her alleged driver's license, wondering how anyone could be that *happy* to be at work this early.  
  
However, no one questioned her. From the minute the rental agreement touched her skin, Clarice Starling melted away, and Natalie Campbell stepped forward. Mrs. Natalie Campbell, no less. A married woman in the eyes of the world. Perhaps she was on awkward terms with her husband for the lack of a ring on her finger. Maybe she was a divorcee, suffering the long-term affects while still hoping her beloved would return to her.  
  
Perhaps Natalie Campbell was the type to run willingly and unarmed into the grasp of serial killers, ones especially with a fetish for the taste of human skin. Starling considered this drolly as she dragged her luggage onto the bus that would take her to the designated lot V-5.  
  
As Starling acquainted herself with the knobs and gadgets of the Buick's interior, uncomfortable with the idea of driving a car she didn't know so far away from home, she considered why she *had* abandoned her gun. After all, there was that one in a million chance that she would require its usage. This *was* Hannibal Lecter, and.  
  
Yeah, whatever.  
  
Starling supposed she would have to deal with these thoughts that bid her return, to not do this utterly insane thing. However, the car pulled out of the airport lot as though it had a will of its own. It took her out of Washington and onto the highway she decided on the previous night, the one that would take her directly to Shelbyville in a number of hours.  
  
Five o'clock that evening, the payphone at the 7/11 would ring. The woman now claiming to be Natalie Campbell, carrying determination known only to Clarice Starling, vowed to be there to answer.  
  
  
  
*        *        *  
  
  
  
The car ride, in itself, was not as bad as she originally anticipated. After Starling became familiar with the various knobs and controls, she found a radio station to her liking, one that ranged both to the Washington area and in the direction that she was traveling. She made a note to add it to her programmed dials in the Mustang when she returned home.  
  
Music, Starling discovered, was a splendid method in withdrawing her attention from the task at hand. However, in the very same sense, there didn't seem to be one tune in the vast cosmos that failed to remind her of herself, or Dr. Lecter, or Dr. Lecter *and* herself. Especially one entitled 'Get Here' by a singer she was unfamiliar with. The lyrics haunted her, and while Starling wished to adjust the volume or switch stations, her hands remained firmly planted on the wheel and her eyes on the road in front of her. There was no point, really, in averting attention. After all, in a few hours she would be in the proximity of the man himself. Therefore, she forced herself to endure it, trying very hard, unsuccessfully, not to listen.  
  
'You can reach me railway  
  
You can reach me by trail way  
  
You can reach me on an airplane  
  
You can reach me with your mind.  
  
You can reach me by caravan.  
  
Cross the desert like an Arab man.  
  
I don't care how you get here -  
  
Just get here if you can.'  
  
Yeah, definitely too close for comfort. In some perverse way, Starling felt she was obliging the singer's instructions, and wondered if the tune was written with her in mind.  
  
Time was notorious for its odd windows and tendency to simultaneously speed and slow. While it seemed to teeter and stretch, Starling found herself at the designated location shortly before 4:30. She had made remarkable time, noting that twice she stopped; once for coffee and a rest room break, and a second time for lunch.  
  
The town was just as Dr. Lecter described. Small and barren, offering little to the traveler. For these reasons, she speculated, it was perfect. No one would suspect Hannibal Lecter to pinpoint this location, and similarly, her otherwise notorious face would be dismissed. For, after all, why would Clarice Starling of the FBI travel to this dismal place? Across from the 7/11, where she clearly outlined the payphone, she noted both Western Sizzlin and Shoney's establishments. Should Dr. Lecter's instructions not to meet him that night; she knew she would have to succumb to one or the other for means of questionable nourishment.  
  
Naturally, her first impulse was to go directly to the payphone and wait out his call. In the time she had to spare, Starling wrestled with her food preferences, finding both dining options for the evening to be very distasteful. After the dubious though convenient McDonalds she picked up for lunch, she craved 'real' food. In a town this size, she supposed she should be grateful of the options granted.  
  
The phone rang.  
  
Starling screamed and jumped, hand immediately going to the receiver before she recalled that he didn't want her to answer, for whatever reason, until the second call. What had the letter said? Though she hadn't had the time to memorize it as the last, she suffered no real trouble in conjuring the doctor's instructions. The ease at which she did this didn't surprise her. There was time for inward questioning later.  
  
At precisely five p.m tomorrow evening, the phone at the local 7/11 will ring three times, stop, and two minutes later, ring once more. Pick up on the second ring, and I will deliver further instructions.  
  
The phone had already rung five times. Dismayed and aggravated, Starling shook her head and picked it up.  
  
"Hello?" she snapped.  
  
Heavy panting from the other side, then two male voices suggesting a good half hour of phone sex. How was it possible that people could hit on her without having to see her? Starling rolled her eyes and slammed the phone down and irritably checked her watch. 5:01, by her mark. A shiver of fear shimmied up her spine. Had she missed it all because of a couple of horny teenagers who couldn't control their impulses?  
  
It was times like these that she recalled why she hated today's youth, and similarly rejected the idea that she wasn't too far ahead of them.  
  
The phone rang again. Starling held her breath.  
  
One.  
  
She exerted, paused, and drew in another.  
  
Two.  
  
She held.  
  
Three.  
  
Held and released. Drew in another and awaited the fourth...  
  
Waited and waited. It never came.  
  
Two minutes later, the phone started to ring again. Starling's hand immediately shot to grasp it. She endured the first ring, certain it was the longest she had ever heard, waited out the second before finally picking up.  
  
"Hello?" she asked, voice considerably changed from before. Now, she was breathless and eager. The silence from the other end informed her, without needing any audio confirmation, that this was the call she was waiting for.  
  
Indeed, a second passed before she heard a pleased sigh coursing through her new conversationalist. "Well, Clarice," a very familiar, very welcome voice replied casually, "Let me commend you on making it this far. I can't say I fully expected that. There might be some hope for you yet."  
  
The smile tickling her lips could not be helped. "That's all well and good, Dr. Lecter. We can discuss the various ways to prove you wrong at a later date. Where from here?"  
  
A chuckle rippled through the line. "Aren't we eager? Hmmm? Don't let your patience fail you now, Clarice. You're doing *so* well. Lest the reminder be necessary, I must be very careful in my dealings with you. Now, where to go from here.very interesting query indeed." 


	6. Phone Conversations

Time suspended for Starling. In traveling here, reciting her words to herself over and over, continuously arguing her deeper motives for complying with his offer in the first place, she still hadn't mastered what exactly it was that she hoped to gain from this meeting. Perhaps, on some level, she expected everything to fall into place the minute she picked up the phone. For all her words and feelings and jumbled emotions to come together, like some Beatles song where everything was easy and carefree. However, now that she had him on the phone, now that they were separated by only a series of cords and connection lines, her breath hitched in her throat, though not in regret. If anything, her reaction was reassuring her that seizing this opportunity to rekindle their relationship in the after phases of their encounter at the lake house was the correct choice to take.  
  
Stalling to make time for herself wasn't going to rest well with the doctor, she knew. He liked her direct and confrontational, always honest. If she stopped to think about her answer, he would suspect that she was attempting to conjure up some falsity.   
  
However, despite her fears and anxieties about their impending meeting, Starling didn't often find herself speechless. Time and time again, she had to bite her tongue in the presence of work colleagues to keep herself from speaking up rather than fighting for words. Therefore, the problem, in itself, really had little affect. Their reunion, of sorts, wouldn't alter that.   
  
"Are you determined to keep me waiting, Dr. Lecter?" she heard herself asking. "You know that my sense of patience isn't as firm as yours, which I'm rather comfortable with. I did hustle up here to answer this goddamned phone. The least you could do is provide me with some hint on where exactly you hope to take this."  
  
There was an appreciative chortle as her immediate reply, but the doctor, in his ever-loving sense for torture and prolonging of answers, as he knew patience was of the essence, found it within himself to refrain from jumping to comment. Neither particularly enjoyed acting in accordance with the other – or anyone, for that matter – when it came to measures of direct questions and wanting instantaneous responses. Nevertheless, Starling sensed that Dr. Lecter's own patience and excitement at this renewed contact was wearing on him, and he was slightly eager to pinpoint the measure of her true motives, whether or not she was really here for his good-to-honest assistance, or for the sake of the FBI, for professional gain.  
  
Finally, he drew in a breath and began to speak. "I do love your value of honesty, Clarice, and while you admit that your patience isn't as keen as it might be, I must similarly confess that it is pleasant to test your resolve. Now, to the matter at hand, as it seems you simply *cannot* wait…it is not my intention to be overly dramatic when we see each other once more, assuming that is still what you want. However, I must again stress that, as a free man, I am taking an awful risk in meeting like this." There was a significant pause. "After all, you did tell me recently that, given the opportunity, you would rob me of my sovereignty."  
  
"Actually, I never said yes or no to that accusation," she remembered suddenly, pausing to reconsider. It was odd the way memories flew to you once in question of your moral standing, whether or not for personal aid. In that instant, it became absolutely imperative to remind him of anything that would speed this meeting of theirs. The instance provided was fortunate. She knew she spoke the truth. "You answered that yourself, then started talking about medals."  
  
Another silence answered her, though she sensed the reasoning behind it differed than the first. It carried the scent of surprise.   
  
"Very good," he complimented a minute later. "Sharp as a needle, you are, even under the influence of heavy narcotics." Another pause, brief this time, and a note changed in his voice. "Speaking of needles, I must ask, how is your shoulder? Better, I hope."  
  
"It's fine. I doubt you need that reassurance."  
  
"Oh, I do, Clarice," he replied, voice strangely sincere. "I was working under some thirsty conditions, you see, and I wanted to be doubly sure that the job executed rendered you the epitome of healthiness. Does it hurt when you stretch it? Can you still fire your gun with as much deadly accuracy as ever before, or do you find yourself handicapped?"  
  
"I haven't been to the range in a while."  
  
"Oh? And why is that?"  
  
Starling rolled her eyes. "Dr. Lecter, I did not ask for a conversation about my career, I just wanted to know—"  
  
"Yes, yes, we'll get to that. Right now, though, I'd like to indulge. Catch up, if you will." There was a pause, and she could sense him smiling at her frustration. "I always did tell you it would be something to know you in private life. This is as close as I've gotten in the ten years of our prolonged acquaintance, wouldn't you agree? Should your morals and sense of obligation become overbearing, I wouldn't want to find myself cheated of good old fashioned dialogue. Now, can we agree to be patient and do this my way?"  
  
Though she knew she had no choice, should she want to accomplish anything, she couldn't help sarcasm from creeping into her voice. "Your way or the highway?"  
  
"Crudely phrased, but yes."  
  
"Fine."  
  
"Excellent. Back to my inquiry, hmmm? Why haven't you been to the firing range in recent days?"  
  
"I think you know."   
  
"Most likely, but I would like you to tell me. Hold nothing back, Clarice. Your raw frustration, whether directed toward me or toward your more deserving tormentors."  
  
It was too good a shot to miss. He had set himself right up, probably on purpose. "And the difference would be…?"  
  
There was a sigh, artificial but very convincing. "Dear Clarice, you're breaking my heart. I should think that would be most obvious. Either way, you're avoiding the answer."  
  
"I haven't been to the range because my career isn't exactly what it used to be."  
  
"And that prohibits you from exercising your gun arm? Especially with the wound you acquired? Such neglect to physicality might prove dangerous once you climb down from the peak of your latest disgrace."  
  
"I don't see a point anymore, really. Do you? I very much doubt I'll ever be reinstated with all the *glories* and *honors* I had before." She sighed, forgetting for the time that she, herself, had a question that deserved to be answered. She leaned against the phone booth, receiver pressed tightly to her ear. As an afterthought, or perhaps she didn't hear herself thinking it aloud, she said, "I don't think I want them."  
  
"Hmmm…" Dr. Lecter replied. "That is a rather large declaration. You didn't mean to say it, though, did you? Publicly separate yourself from your lawful husband?"  
  
It was only then that she realized what she had confessed, and while she wasn't altogether regretful of the statement, it did surprise her. Not only with the ease at which it was released, but also with the simplicity of truth behind it. She didn't want her former glories, the blessed reinstatement that was promised in the future.   
  
Quick recovery, though. She also didn't want to solve all her problems during a phone call in the smallest town she had ever set foot in. If that were the case, he might suggest meeting face to face wasn't necessary, and it, in truth, was what she traveled here for.   
  
"Quid pro quo, Doctor."  
  
He hummed his amusement. "You're as slippery as ever, I see. I had almost forgotten that about you. True conversation is blissful, is it not? I was growing bored with our continuous professional returns and tidbits. Here, out in the open, you seem to be a bit more like yourself. As I remember you from 'old times,' as I—"  
  
At the minute, she didn't need to hear his compliments or observations. Patience, or perhaps fear of what it might provoke, seized her will. "Quid pro quo," she repeated fiercely.  
  
"Ah yes. Please forgive me. In truth, I haven't quite yet decided where to go from here, Clarice. I am not a supporter of spontaneity, however, I similarly didn't want to plan an extravagant get-together only to have the phone ring with no answer," he explained thoughtfully. "Would you indulge me a minute?"  
  
"With…?"  
  
"Describe your surroundings."  
  
Starling blinked and leaned forward, glancing outside the smeared glass as far as she could see into the small town. Nothing had changed, though the sun was beginning to set. There were no cars on the road, none approaching, that she could see, though several were parked at the choice restaurants in the proximity. "Ummm…the 7/11, of course."  
  
"Of course," he agreed.  
  
"A Western Sizzlin' place…and Shoney's. I think…I can't see that far, but there are some motels down the road a bit."  
  
He chuckled. "Your dining options sound exquisite."  
  
"I would rather avoid them, if I could. I haven't exactly eaten well today."  
  
"What did you have for lunch?"  
  
"…McDonalds…"  
  
A fake gasp of horror. "Clarice! I'm appalled!"  
  
"Hey, I was in a hurry. I had to get to the phone by five."  
  
The counterfeit astonishment was quickly exchanged for fake ignorance and curiosity. "Oh? And why is that?"  
  
"I'm following the absurdly cautious instructions of a labeled sociopath, and he's really starting to get on my nerves." Where the playfulness in her voice originated, she did not know, or even register. So focused was she on his sudden, rich, and authentic laughter that time to analyze, question, and repeatedly kick herself for her reply was thankfully short.  
  
"Weeeeellll," he purred a minute later, regaining his tone of dictation, "I'm afraid that annoying sociopath must continue playing with your nerves. Down the road, I believe you will find a comfortable…well, allow me to rephrase…a *tolerable* motel. It's cheap, and I will compensate the expenses, as you are here under my instruction. I would recommend one of higher caliber, but I'm afraid there are none convenient."  
  
"Why can't just I drive up to Philly?" she asked irritably.   
  
"Several reasons. Firstly, I want to be thoroughly convinced that you are here because you want to be for personal, not professional, gain. A man can't be too careful under such conditions," Dr. Lecter explained rationally. "Secondly, I want you to have that option of returning, for there are only so many steps you can take before becoming too deeply involved, regardless of what you said earlier about your nonexistent desire to reclaim your esteemed position in the Bureau. Your sense of duty remains buried under the scarred agent somewhere, Clarice. And even if your intentions are just as you say they are, that doesn't mean you are incapable of changing your mind between now and our meeting. Though our discussions might not exactly incriminate you, if you handle your absence in the correct fashion, there are certain lines that can potentially be crossed." He took a breath and let that sink in with all its annoying truth and wisdom. "Thirdly, and perhaps most domestically, you may notice that it is growing dark, my dear. Though I trust your night vision completely, you are delivering a precious shipment to me, that being yourself, and I wish to take no risk in causing you a driving accident."  
  
"Is that what I am?" Starling sniped defensively, angry for that fleeting instant. "A fucking shipment?"  
  
"Must you be so literal?"  
  
"Must you be so metaphorical?"  
  
"Touché. Now, Clarice, you know what I meant by that, and I'm sure there is a part of you, obscured deep within that bothersome agent, that is flattered, whether or not you care to admit it. It isn't always necessary to be self-protective. I am not pawning over you like those whelps to which you are so accustomed," he said narrowly, allowing her some time to reprieve, which she declined, for she knew he spoke the truth. When she neglected to reply, he continued, "Now then, as I was saying…I believe the Motel 6 will suffice for tonight. My apologies on the rudimentary dining establishments, but I do believe they are at least superior to what you consumed for lunch. Have you called in to report your absence to those who might notice that you're gone?"  
  
Her mind blanked and she struggled to remember, everything from the minute she received his instructions to now distorting. Perhaps…perhaps… "I think so…maybe…honestly, Dr. Lecter, I think I'm losing it."  
  
"There, there…that's what we're here to correct, isn't it? Call in to make doubly sure. Though the path you have left to trace isn't exactly uncomplicated in following, I will not vainly acclaim my methods are unbreakable." There was a pause and an intake of breath. When he spoke again, his voice was soothing, understanding. "Rest, Clarice. Get something in your stomach and rest. You may sleep in as late as you want, which I highly recommend. No one will find you tonight, and should someone catch on, you will be far from here by the time these first steps can be traced. I will be contacting you when it is convenient."  
  
"Doctor—"  
  
"Good night, my dear. Pleasant dreams."  
  
A click and the dial tone. She was left in the darkness that had nestled around the phone booth and the blaze of fluorescent lighting from the fill-up station, the remnants of discussion and further irritation at their prolonged distance, but nothing more.  
  
  


* * * 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	7. If I Could Turn Back Time...

Nightlife in small towns was always amusing to witness.   In her instance, the residents were either elderly or teenagers.  There didn't seem to be any medium.  After abandoning the phone booth, Starling sighed and headed back to her car, eyes averting again to the dimly lit trace of civilization other than her rather bleak dining options down the road.  The motel that he suggested was there, in sight.  She didn't see any sign of a fast food restaurant other than Hardee's.  
  
Eww...Hardee's.  More unprocessed food. A disgusted rumbling from her midsection safely ruled out that option.  Not a Mr. Goodcents or Schlotzsky's in sight, her personal preference when it came to fast and easy.  At least, nine times out of ten, the offered food was edible, or somewhat close.  
  
Starling didn't want to be out any later than was necessary.  It wasn't that she was apprehensive of potential troublemakers; more to the effect that driving as far she had nonstop with no one to trade duties with was strenuous.  She wanted to be near a bed as quickly as possible.  At the same time, her stomach growled with neglect and demanded compensation for the joke of a lunch she had offered it.  Perhaps some take out from Shoney's wouldn't be that bad.  
  
It didn't appear she had much choice.  
  
Shoney's was one of those chain restaurants that seemed to have identical structure and familiar help, despite location. Though she wasn't one to frequent at such diners, Starling had ashamedly visited enough to note this as she entered.  
  
The thought of Dr. Lecter succumbing to eat at one of these high-quality establishments occurred to her, and she wondered if he would opt to do so or starve if location offered no alternative. Picturing his distaste as he examined the food selection was comically arousing, and a grin tugged her lips. As these thoughts processed – gaining levels of humor and something else – a plumpy young waitress greeted her with a menu and a cheerful smile, as though everyone should be so lucky to have her profession.  
  
"How many?"  
  
"Just one." Perhaps, long ago, a different time, place, even person would have felt a twinge of embarrassment to be seen dining alone, even amongst people she would never see again. However, after years of routine and the promise that this might be the last time for a long time caused the thought to flicker and die, before merging into tangibility.  
  
The motives for this trip were becoming more and more ambiguous. When the offer was made, it was for quiet discussion and nothing more. However, the further she got from Washington, the more reluctant she found herself at the thought of turning back. It felt as though a veil had been lifted, or that someone had finally offered her a breath of fresh air. A helping hand from a cannibalistic fiend, something to recognize and grasp, suddenly felt like every achievement she had obtained within her profession. She only hoped progression wouldn't be snatched away at the same velocity.  
  
Starling knew that Dr. Lecter did not fully trust her, and as aggravating as that was, she understood. Had she been seeking him for professional motives, she would have attempted to keep him on that phone as long as possible, even if the conversation itself was nothing anyone could define as short.  
  
She wondered if he took that into account, and immediately berated herself for needing to question.  
  
In this time of self-evaluation, Starling allowed herself to seriously consider the prospect of never returning. True, the thought had crossed her mind, and she had always known it was a possibility, but never one she truly *believed*. Run away from home. Run away again. Run away from the place where lambs were constantly slain, and never making headway in their plight for silence.  
  
But was she running to someone who could stop their screaming, or would the cries intensify as a result?  
  
Something unseen whispered the truth she didn't fully want to grasp, and Starling flinched in recognition.  
  
Even if Dr. Lecter wasn't the answer, or if she could never confront herself or be provoked into a deeper admittance, or – however the case – had he no interest in her of this nature, she was still free. Escaped. No one said she had to go back.  
  
Small, dull Shelbyville…pathetically superior to the Brutuses of Washington.  
  
There was another solution. Running away from home did not constitute running away to *him*, per say. To his advice, guidance, but anything more? Starling was firstly unsure that she would agree with what he said, and secondly, very doubtful that she would allow her conscious to overflow with what had tainted her subconscious for the past decade.  
  
Peril waited at the end of either path. The long and winding road, as it was. Starling, from experience, knew the myth was 'a thousand times more savage' than the man himself. From studying a variety of Internet web pages and chat transcripts, she concluded that the stories behind his monstrosity were often exaggerated and, in most cases, humanly impossible. Though Dr. Lecter had before defied laws of logicality, some of the feats he was rumored to have accomplished were downright preposterous. They were good for a laugh.  
  
Starling didn't fear for her life with Dr. Lecter, in fact, she was almost reassured of it. If it came down to it, she had to force herself to confession that it was more often others that she had to worry about.  
  
On the other hand, she was fairly confident that the FBI would place her at the front lines of any battle at the first available chance. She was their human body shield, otherwise situated at permanent reserve.  
  
Again, Starling reveled in her sense of newfound liberty. It was hard placing so much faith and conviction into something more corrupt than the being it was chasing.  
  
Questions, questions, so many questions. Another probable cause for her time on hold. Dr. Lecter indubitably had revelations and conclusions to decipher himself. In the meantime, she had trivial matters with which to keep entertained, such as which country-fried delicacy she would subject to her digestive system.  
  
And they all looked so yummy, too!  
  
Starling ordered to go and awaited her bill and food. It wasn't until the war within her mind had dwindled that she noticed several of the male customers staring at her admiringly.  
  
A snicker crawled into her throat as she rolled her eyes. "Never a break."  
  
Living in a big city did have its advantages, however numbered. She didn't often have to worry about wandering into a restaurant where 'everybody knows her name.'  
  
At least when she wasn't making headlines.  
  
After wasting an unproductive ten minutes waiting, the same waitress approached, still smiling, and said, "It's going to be a few minutes. Do you want to sit down? We can bring you a desert menu while you wait."  
  
A fast decision. She was tired of standing, despite her eagerness to get to the hotel. "Just bring me my food," she replied, her tone understanding in careful disguise of her agitation. "I'll eat here."  
  
Ignoring the doting attention of men had become a science with Starling, a reason, undoubtedly, supporting the honorary title of 'cold fish.' She was led to her booth, perfectly aware of the appreciative lure from those around her. An outsider. Fresh meat.  
  
Yeah right.  
  
By the time her food arrived, she was no longer hungry, playing idly with her straw as her eyes wandered out the window. Twenty-four hours before she had received a letter from Dr. Hannibal Lecter concerning her future. And, without much consideration, she leapt at the chance. How much of this was real life? Sometimes her own book seemed so surreal that she half- expected to be allowed the ability to rewind, pace herself, and try again.  
  
People operate without realizing the consequences to actions, and she, despite her knowledge and comprehension of how one minor discrepancy could lead down a world of hurt, was no different. Starling rotated a piece of beef on her fork, not really looking at it. Her mind mapped out the varieties of possible futures that lay ahead. Should she turn back after spending however much time with Dr. Lecter, what then? An unexplained leave – had she called in? She couldn't remember – well, so be it.  
  
What if it didn't end or begin there? Starling was basing her judgment on the rather disputable possibility that she would escape any situation unscathed. This might be her conventional end as well.  
  
Perhaps that was why he insisted on making her wait. From experience, Starling knew that Dr. Lecter often found ways of executing several points with one example. This was her personal time to reflect, to realize the gravity of the situation she had willingly placed herself in, to consider her options from here, and for him, wherever he was, to decide what to do with her.  
  
Sighing, Starling turned her eyes back to her meal. Hell, she hadn't eaten all day, and this was as good as she was going to get. With a mental nod, as though he were watching her, she felt herself map out the words, 'You win,' as she took her first bite.  
  
* * *  
  
The fates themselves could not have mapped a better stage.  
  
In the phone booth that Special Agent Starling had occupied just a little over a forty five minutes before now stood Dr. Hannibal Lecter, surrounded in the atmosphere that was still very much her, watching her across the street in – sadly – the best diner he could recommend. He was making excellent use out of a pair of field glasses, attentively studying her body language. Much could be told of a person in the matter they portrayed themselves in public. Being allowed this opportunity, and the rarity of a clear view, Dr. Lecter was careful to note everything.  
  
She appeared to be alone, visibly tired, and aggravated at her waitress. From the prestige she offered, it was clear that she was warring with herself, which simultaneously discouraged and pleased him. If they were to continue, it was imperative that she was aware of her options, and that such extended precautions were necessary. The fact that she was debating the issue offered some hope. Dr. Lecter knew that Starling would never present herself in that fashion if surrounded by colleagues; the obvious tell of emotion playing across her face, the wear and tear of cat and mouse. She was exhausted, and she had a right to be.  
  
But so did he.  
  
When she finally decided to pay her meal some attention, there was a sense of resolution on her face. Dr. Lecter lowered the field glasses and mused. While her conflict seemed evident, she was too slippery to predict. He had to consider this from all angles. It could be her war engages the possibility of returning only to tell her colleagues where he is.  
  
Unlikely. She would then have to present evidence to support her theory, thus incriminating herself.  
  
No, she was willingly betraying the law.  
  
Still, Dr. Lecter was skeptical. All this, simply from a couple letters? Not his Clarice, if he knew her.  
  
Unless…  
  
There were things to be taken into consideration. The prospect of having Starling all to himself, without competing with the many voices of her occupational obligations was entirely pleasant. However, he would not allow himself to become clumsy. She was distant and obscure. A worthy adversary, one with which true battle was no object, as well as a lot of fun.  
  
However, true battle he had tasted, time and time again. Dr. Lecter found the flavor of good-to-honest war to be losing its charm. He and Starling had fought on that level long enough. Mind games were by far more enjoyable.  
  
He didn't particularly want to fight her anymore.  
  
Dr. Lecter smiled to himself. There were only so many ways of executing his taken precautions. While studying her, he was becoming more secure with her word, but the chance of a reverse change in heart did not escape him. When dealing with someone as unpredictable as Starling, all angles had to be considered.  
  
Watching her battle with herself, above all else, pleased him. The emotions Starling released when she thought no one was watching were a sheer delight, and more telling than one might believe.  
  
When he raised the glasses to eyes again, a frown tickled his mouth. A local had approached, a tall greasy thing, assuming the seat opposite of her, trying to make polite conversation. In gauging her for reaction, Dr. Lecter was amused to note the evident disinterest sprawled in bright colors across her face. She played with her straw, nodding and arching her brows every few seconds with a kind though irritated smile.  
  
While Dr. Lecter did not particularly enjoy the situations she was forced to adapt to, her aggravation was almost encouraging. He had yet to experience the blatant aversion she exuded in response to such advances. There certainly was no ambiguity, or so he thought, in his feelings about her. Of course, Dr. Lecter had never made hard study of the courting habitual exercised by his gender. He was old fashioned in his methods and had no active interest in the current societal expectations.  
  
Watching Starling now, he reflected that she had an entirely singular reaction reserved for him. The plain revulsion was something she never threw at him, even when he kissed her at the lake house. Her response then was shrouded, stony, but she didn't flinch in disgust when she could have, nor had she spat it back in his face.  
  
And now, instead of ignoring or betraying the chance to see him again, she was here. A matter of steps separated them. Steps that he wanted to cover.  
  
He watched her as she stood, evidently fed up with her uninvited dinner companion. When the man tried to follow her, she at last dropped her courteous exterior and snapped. Dr. Lecter grinned tightly and savored the rawness of action. From here, he could still interpret flared eyes and angrily flushed cheeks. The words 'That's my girl' were on his tongue, but he did not release them.  
  
Hurt and belittled, her conversationalist reddened and turned away. Eagerly, Dr. Lecter surveyed her pleased response. The look of relieved satisfaction on her face was one to relish. It wasn't often that she seemed content, unburdened. Her encounter seemed to take her mind off her current troubles, and the affect of release, even on an unsuspecting victim, could be very rewarding.  
  
He wondered how the words would taste if directed to Pearsall.  
  
While watching her did not compromise his caution, the crave for dialogue, face to face, when he could taste her reactions, was nearly intolerable. Dr. Lecter's face did not change as Starling stepped out of the restaurant, but he had seen enough to decide to approach.  
  
* * *  
  
Somebody give me a medal, Starling thought dryly as she moved to her car. I'm a fucking hick magnet.  
  
Fiery thoughts sizzled and died, though she was genuinely grateful to have something of mundane nature to occupy her mind with. Dealing with the opposite sex was becoming a sport to which she was champion. If only this were an Olympic category.  
  
So detached were her thoughts that she didn't take time to consider the identity of the man behind her. All she felt was a tug at her arm, and something within her snapped. It didn't take much, but with as tired and irritated and hungry as she was (not having completed her so-called supper) it was more than enough. Years of FBI training had done right by her at last, and Starling, rather than deal with another ego-bruised sob story, sharply elbowed whoever-it-was in the gut. She felt, rather than heard, an 'uff' and was already halfway through a punch that sent the person to next year before something dawned on her. Something unthinkable.  
  
Starling froze, snapping her eyes shut. Oh please, not me. Not today. Haven't you had your fun? Summoning up bravery, she turned to see who it was, now unconscious on the ground at her feet.  
  
"Oh fuck." 


	8. What The World Needs Now..

Simplicity.  
  
The FBI agent hunting the fugitive, a fugitive that was virtually invisible. He was a chameleon, a creature that blended with its surroundings with such artful capacity that he had only been captured once, nearly two decades before. Now with even more experience and knowledge, with a grasp on what to do and what not to do, his act of whimsy landed him unconscious at her feet. An unlikely blow from an agitated fist.  
  
No DNA. No labs. No research. Wham!  
  
Simplicity.  
  
However, that wasn't her first thought. Or her second. Or her third. In fact, it wasn't until she had him in her car that she paused to consider exactly what there was to do with him. The smartest thing would be to ask for assistance from a willing patron inside, but suppose he was recognized? After all, it had only been a few short months since his last public debut. Imagine the headlines on this baby.  
  
HANNIBAL LECTER IDENTIFIED AFTER ATTACKING SINGLE WHITE FEMALE IN SHONEY'S PARKING LOT.  
  
No sir, I'll pass.  
  
The intelligent thing to do was most likely to sit with him on the concrete until he came to, but she couldn't do that. For whatever reason, it seemed undignified. Starling was tired of restaurants and cars. She wanted a secluded location away from the wandering inquisitive eyes and seemingly harmless offers for help.  
  
No. Best to get him to the motel.  
  
Yeah…then what?  
  
Huh? She hadn't allowed herself to think that far ahead. One thing at a time. Breathe. In and out. That's it.  
  
When she was seated behind the wheel, her hand froze on the ignition. A cold, familiar feeling suddenly gripped her, whispering that this was her opportunity. This was the chance that she had been praying for. The ticket to her reinstatement, the conclusion to a famous manhunt that had bewildered the FBI for ten years, the means to an end for her tarnished career – after all, hadn't he started the cycle? Wasn't it appropriate that he end it?  
  
She had handcuffs. As an agent, she had no choice but to bring them with her. When she left home, it had been her justification that she might be leaving in the mindset of professional gain, but she had never intended to use them. Starling could cuff him and heave him into her trunk. It was too easy.  
  
Too easy. And she didn't want to. More besides, Hannibal Lecter deserved better from her. He had offered an escape, dialogue, comfort – he was the only person to. Betray that? Thanks but no thanks.  
  
A voice that was not her friend told her that this was an escape. It was an opportunity, a window, a chance she would never have again.  
  
A chance she did not want.  
  
She sighed, pulling out of the parking lot and flicking on the radio, hoping to distract herself with bad music. Tammy Wynette's twang filled the small atmosphere, and Starling hazarded a glance at the doctor. Still as a rock – it would clearly take more than an annoying country performer to wake him up.  
  
In looking at him, she recalled how the words 'You win' had formed so effortlessly in her mind while studying a piece of refried meat in the restaurant. How true it was. Starling had no desire to continue this pointless fight. She didn't know when she had changed and didn't care. The woman that stood watching the fireworks that lonely Fourth of July had emerged from her self-imposed cocoon to face the world. To accept what she couldn't change and embrace what she had known for years.  
  
With a small humorless chuckle, Starling briefly tossed her eyes in his direction again and muttered, "Look at this…you make sense even when you're unconscious." She hesitated and gnawed on her lower lip in subliminal habit. "Not that I'd ever tell you that."  
  
Her voice fell dead to the silence, making her shudder. She had almost expected him to stir and answer her statement, but instead, he left her with dead, empty air. Her eyes redirected to the road before her. Enough thinking for one night. The decision was made – no need in debating the validity of her choices. Been there, done that.  
  
Maybe the smell of the Motel 6 would wake him up. She cracked a brief though humorless smile. Tammy Wynette plus that horrid excuse for an inn.  
  
"You deserved it," Starling muttered, glancing to him and not reflecting surprise when he didn't rouse. "Telling me you're in Philadelphia and then fucking sneaking up on me in the parking lot. Common sense, Doctor. I'm in a strange town. Do I look like I want to socialize?"  
  
Still, swinging before you turned around was rather brash. Suppose it had been an old woman returning your wallet or whatnot? What then?  
  
But she didn't voice that. Her vocal justification for the blow was amusing her and forcing her to confession that she didn't feel that bad. When it came down to it, the situation was pretty damn funny.  
  
"I'll give you one thing," she continued, barely aware that she was speaking. "You sure do know how to make an entrance."  
  
The motel was just down the interstate from the restaurant. Starling pulled up to the check-in office, glanced at Dr. Lecter, not wanting to leave him unattended in the car. For whatever reason, it struck her as unreasonably rude, especially with circumstances as they were. After a minute, she chuckled at herself, basking in the glorious irony. Imagine the day she would worry about him.  
  
Consciously.  
  
Frowning, Starling resorted to removing her jacket and throwing it over his face. She stared at his covered form for a minute before cracking another smile.  
  
A sudden flash. She was a few months younger and standing in the doorway of an unfamiliar house that she somehow knew instinctively to belong to Paul Krendler. Watching as Dr. Lecter, awake then, tossed a hand-towel over a recently de-lobed dinner guest.  
  
That coaxed her laughing fit aside. She finally climbed to her feet, locking the doors and pulling the keys with her. "I'll be right back," she promised, wondering if she was speaking for his benefit or her own.  
  
In a few minutes, she returned with newly acquired passkeys and reclaimed the wheel. Dr. Lecter had not so much as twitched in position. Starling removed her coat from his face and tossed it into the back, allowing her eyes to again stray over his temporarily suspended body. The peace this man radiated was amazing. For all the world, it looked as though he were merely napping.  
  
Briefly, Starling imagined waking up next to a face as serene as this, as relaxed. She saw herself watching him as sunshine peaked through loosely tied curtains and distinctly tickled his features to animation. She saw silver hair hanging over his brow instead of slicked back in elegance and found it terribly arousing. She saw her hand outlining his face until his eyes opened. She saw him smile. She—  
  
Snapped out of it.  
  
"What the world needs now," she muttered dryly, pulling up to the designated room. "Is for you to stop putting ideas in my head."  
  
No response. If she hadn't heard him breathing, she would have testified he was dead.  
  
Starling heaved herself out of the car and went around to his side. She took his left arm and craned him to her, careful to avoid hitting his head against the car ceiling. There had already been too many head injuries for one night. With a grunt, she slung the arm over her shoulder, pivoting him to a stand with her free hand. The thought arose that he would enjoy this a tad too much if he were awake, especially as she tightly wound her arm around him to keep him upright and secure, but she didn't care. Options were limited; she wasn't about to drag him inside.  
  
"Hey—lady!"  
  
Growling at the interruption, Starling and oofed and turned, Dr. Lecter's chin coming to rest at the base of her neck. Down a few doors was a middle- aged man who was looking her over too narrowly for comfort. Her eyes squinted in annoyance, brows perking in silent compliance.  
  
"Need any help? 'Hut's the matter with him?"  
  
The answer that first occurred to her was the product of many early Academy days when Mapp would party all night and return at ungodly hours, most usually passing out before making it to any bed. More often than not, Starling would still be up, studying or watching television, back in the days where she could function admirably on two hours of rest. Like the Good Samaritan, she would put halt to whatever it was she was going to help her friend to her bed.  
  
"He's wasted," she replied before considering. At that, she had to clench her teeth on the inside of her cheek to the point where she wanted to yelp in pain. The thought of Dr. Lecter intoxicated was beyond amusing.  
  
"Drunk? It's only seven o'clock!"  
  
"Yeah…I…" Starling wobbled further to the door. "This is lucky. He usually doesn't make it to five."  
  
"Need help?"  
  
"No. I'm fine. Thanks." As if to emphasize her point, she stuck the key into the lock and the door swung open. Flashing a worn, practiced work smile to the man, she waved her thanks best she could with her occupied hands and disappeared inside.  
  
After she had him on the bed, Starling made sure he looked comfortable before planting a hand on her hip and dabbing her forehead with the back of her other. "Never a fucking break," she mumbled. "Even with you here."  
  
No movement.  
  
"Oh please," she said, emphatically raising her arms, as though in disbelief. "I couldn't have hit you that hard."  
  
No movement.  
  
"All those times you braved electro-shock therapy and I can take you down with one lousy punch? No offense, Doctor, but you are such a pansy."  
  
No movement.  
  
"Fine." Sighing heavily, Starling flopped onto the bed opposite him and reached for the remote. "You sure know how to show a girl an evening." She turned the television on and started flicking through channels. An old Saturday Night Live rerun was playing on Comedy Central, Adam Sandler decked out as Opera Man and singing of Former President Bush 'el dozing.' Even now, years later, it was still funny.  
  
She grinned tightly and glanced over to Dr. Lecter, who was 'el dozing' himself. "If Tammy Wynette doesn't work – Adam Sandler should. Look! He's making fun of opera."  
  
Nothing.  
  
"Opera!"  
  
Nothing.  
  
"Goddamn you."  
  
The television wasn't as distracting as she had hoped. Growling, Starling turned it off and rose to her feet, causing the bed to emit a rickety spring. She crossed her arms, her eyes narrowing as she studied him.  
  
"You're really going to make me do it, aren't you?" She shook her head, her eyes going to the ceiling as though it held the answer. "He's going to make me do it and he has me talking to myself." Vindictively, she looked back to him and sighed again. "You asshole."  
  
The words on her tongue sounded almost fond. No, that wouldn't do. Starling cleared her throat and neared, her lips pursing in thought as her arms fell limply to her sides. She was beyond feeling uncomfortable with him, all things considered with what they had been through together. A defeated breath escaped her. So this was it. Her jumbled thoughts and loyalties suddenly seemed low and insignificant, an annoyance that wouldn't leave but also had no tie. No soundness or strength. Something she was tired of listening to. Something she was tired of hearing.  
  
Despite the awkwardness of the situation, this was the most fun she had had in…well, a while.  
  
An inner voice of reason reminded her that she would probably enjoy herself even more if he awoke.  
  
Yeah. He was going to make her do it. No time like the present.  
  
Starling pulled her hair back and held it for a minute, her eyes never leaving him. "Fine," she said, releasing her hold, blowing red strands out of her face. "Fine. Let's go." With conviction, she closed the space between them and neared his face. He still looked peaceful—she had never seen him in such a state of rest and almost doubted she would again. Each contour of his temporarily unresponsive face was relaxed. She liked him like this.  
  
She was finding she liked him in a lot of ways.  
  
As her eyes fell to his lips, she leaned forward, drawing in a big gulp of air before muttering, "We never can seem to do this right."  
  
The words stung with precision and she flinched but proceeded, surpassing a shudder as her mouth touched his and her cheeks puffed as she prepared to inflate him with air.  
  
Something warm and malleable entered her mouth, and she froze in surprise before she could pull away. When her motor functions returned, Starling gasped and pulled back sharply. Dr. Lecter's lips were pulled in a tight, amused smile, provoking her to soar with both heat and fury. Then his eyes opened and captured her with dancing pupils, and she felt a storm brewing inside her, despite the flush that rose to her cheeks.  
  
"Well," he said matter-of-factly, sitting up, his voice calm and alert. "Even if we can never seem to do that right, we sure do have fun trying."  
  
"You bastard!" Furiously, she balled her fist and took a swing at him, which he deflected with antagonizing ease. Her eyes darkened as he batted her hand away as though it were nothing more than an insignificant annoyance.  
  
"Now now," he scolded softly, moving to sit on the edge of the bed even as his eyes continued their jive of amusement. "We'll have none of that. Not after you spent so much time expertly bringing me back to life."  
  
Starling's breaths were coming harsh as her temper begged for control. She clenched her teeth and counted to ten. "How long have you been awake?"  
  
"I'd say…since around ten this morning."  
  
"WHAT?!"  
  
"Well, you really couldn't expect me to resist such an opportunity, could you?"  
  
Starling paused, holding a hand up. "What opportunity?"  
  
"I should think it was quite obvious." Dr. Lecter smiled winningly at her and didn't react when she scowled. "In watching you this evening, I gauged that you were battling with yourself. When you took your rather abrupt though charming irritation out on me, I seized the opportunity – and incredible odds, if I do say so myself – to let you take charge."  
  
The flush in her cheeks had withered, leaving only raw exasperation. "So you pretended to be out because you wanted to see if I would turn you in."  
  
"You thought about it," he observed. "Quite seriously after we were in the car."  
  
"But when I didn't turn you in. When it was obvious I—"  
  
Like the rest of him, his smile was both infuriating and neutralizing. A complete contradiction of itself. "Well, that perhaps wasn't entirely professional, but it was a lot of fun."  
  
"And so you just kicked back and listened to every stupid thing I said to you? To myself?"  
  
He grinned. "Every word."  
  
Starling's eyes darkened further. "I really hate you sometimes."  
  
"Well, then we have made progress," Dr. Lecter noted. "At least you're beyond hating me all the time."  
  
"Don't push your luck, Buster."  
  
"Please, Clarice, we're beyond name-calling."  
  
"But never beyond mind games, right? As long as it's honky dory with you it has to be all right with everyone else." Starling flopped on her spine to the other mattress. "You are so fucking difficult."  
  
She heard the springs of the bed pop as Dr. Lecter stood, but she didn't look to him, even as him sat next to her.  
  
"You don't think you would miss the mind games, even a little?" he asked, his voice gallingly passive and equally charming. Starling closed her eyes tightly to surpass a groan.  
  
"They are frustrating, Doctor. So are you, most of the time."  
  
"And yet you're still here."  
  
Finally she sat up, her eyes shining with something indistinguishable. "Don't remind me." Starling pushed off the bed and went to the sink; drawing some water into one of the complimentary plastic cups sitting beside packaged bars of soap. "I must be out of my mind. That or dreaming. I don't even know what I'm doing here."  
  
The doctor hadn't moved, and his voice reflected slightly distant and elusive. "Sure you do, though I pride myself that you believe you would dream yourself into such a telling position. You wouldn't be here if you weren't completely certain of your motives. Not unless you have suffered that much change in the past few months."  
  
"Oh yes," she snickered, turning around after tossing her untouched water down the sink. "I forget. You can look at any situation and never change. Ever. So you expect no one else to. Every time I look around, I see something that changes me. I was changed the minute I met you. The minute I shot Jame Gumb. The minute Jack Crawford died, and I realized I would never get that position in Behavior Science I had wasted my career striving for. The minute I pulled the trigger on Evelda Drumgo. And—"  
  
"There is a difference between change and the discovery of another part of yourself," Dr. Lecter said softly. The springs whined again as he rose. "Clarice, you have the eyes of a child, still marveling at the horrors and cruelty of the world. You face it daily with continuous surprise. Cynicism flavors you nicely with gentility. You've learned to expect the worst of human nature. You've seen the horrors of a godless society, but persist to believe in the best of the common man."  
  
Starling scowled, unsure whether to be complimented or angry. When she couldn't decide, she settled that resentment was more natural. "I'm not that naïve, Doctor."  
  
"Oh? What of your actions following my abduction by the late Mason Verger? Despite logicality, you decided to call in what you saw, even when you knew your friends would think nothing of it." His voice traveled and he stood before her now, eyes narrowing in scrutiny. "And at dear Paul's lake house, your first and only instinct was to contact the authorities, even if you knew what was to proceed."  
  
At that, she snickered though her cheeks were flushed again, this time with shame rather than heat. "Well forgive me for having a conscience."  
  
Dr. Lecter's head tilted a fracture, his own irritation bleeding through at last. When he looked back to her, his eyes were fiery, all kidding aside. "There. You see? You apologize for being yourself. You are made to believe who you are is not good enough, was never good enough for them. You think you need to change, that it will make everything all right." He sighed. "But you do not want that. Another tragic hero for the media, another clone of the social order. You want acceptance and you want to do well. You want people to look at you and know you. You want to believe in the general good will, even if the culture that birthed it has been buried for centuries." Once more he paused, letting his words seep in with every stinging truth. "You want to look at me and see what they see. But you are human, Clarice, and you have built yourself on courage and accuracy."  
  
Starling took a minute to note that he had backed her against the wall, that his arms were outstretched on either side, preventing her escape, and that his eyes were alight with something she had seen only once before. It made her shiver with recognition and sting with the implication of truth.  
  
She hated it when he was right. She hated it more when he knew that she knew he was right.  
  
"Now then," he continued, his voice menacingly low but not with the hint of threat. "Look inside yourself, and tell me why you believe you are here. No pretenses, Clarice. I would like the truth, and I'm sure you would as well. Why did you agree? Why did you come? Why did you bring me here instead of directing your car back to Washington?"  
  
But Starling couldn't answer, not now. She was lost between words, in his eyes, and didn't know where to start. 


	9. Confrontation

The next few seconds passed slowly--caught between time and reasoning. Small discomforts became tangible and emphasized. Behind her, the motel wall was cold and inhospitable, breath from the man standing before her warming her face. Starling lost herself in the whirl of his eyes, colors and sensations flying, striking her at odd angles. Though she was never before a person to tingle, her skin started to itch. Had the wall not been behind her, she was certain her legs would give way. Even without his commanding grasp clinching her arms to hold her immobile, the affect of his eyes empowered her obedience with a thousand times the impact of physical strength.  
  
Answers. As always, he wanted answers to questions she had dared not yet ask herself.  
  
It occurred to Starling there, captured between him and the motel wall, that no one had ever seen this side of him before her. This visible struggle for restraint in which he schooled himself from either ravaging her throat or moving to fluidly possess her mouth, and not for the sake of ripping out her tongue. The emotions he allowed himself to reveal warred within his eyes, yet in the end, his resistance outweighed temptation, leaving him looking a mixture of pleasant and endlessly agitated.  
  
No one dared defy him. No one except her.  
  
Starling crossed his boundaries without thought or trepidation, and had since their meeting, that fateful morning ten years ago. While she never forgot what he was, she likewise never feared it.  
  
Almost never. She remembered the way her heart skipped when he reached for the cleaver those few short months before, knowing it had leaked through her eyes and that he saw it, too. Not fear for herself, though. They both knew she would be happy to escape any situation without mounting casualties.  
  
The wounded lay motionless on the battlefield, waiting for the bayonet charge, waiting for death. Waiting for the infliction that would never come. That was how the Bureau left her. Dying on the battlefield without medicine, without death, without anything to suggest there was purpose to continue.  
  
Patience was his strong suit, but ironically, he detested waiting. Starling's gaze never left his, rose rising to her cheeks, whether in embarrassment, humor or desire, she didn't know. When his eyes flickered, she knew he was a brink from shaking her until she crumpled, even as his arms remained outstretched on the wall, closing her in.  
  
Bits and pieces of an answer began to form, but it was a truth she did not want to face. A reality that shouldn't exist. Even as she stood here, in the presence of Hannibal Lecter, miles from home and no intention of apprehending him, the admission of her deeper logic made her fear the loss of something more than morality. "I don't know!" she finally gasped, knowing it would only provoke his irritation. At last, her eyes fells from his, landing on his footwear. "I can't!"  
  
In that minute, she knew he wanted to grab her, knew it without needing to look up and gauge it from his expression. From the corner of her eye, she saw Dr. Lecter's right arm tremble with restraint, a subtle movement, but existent nonetheless. When he spoke, his voice was still low, threat creeping into his tone, enough to chill anyone's blood. Anyone other than her. "Look at me, Clarice," the words came. Soft, metallic, articulate...her knees quivered again as she pressed herself to the wall, fighting the overbearing temptation to either pass out or fall forward into his embrace.  
  
When she refused to comply, even acknowledge that she heard his command, his left hand leapt off the wall and tightly grasped her hair, pulling her head forcefully upward, chin tilted slightly at an angle. Starling gasped her surprise but offered no complaint, eyes immediately meeting his. He regarded her a minute before lowering his gaze to consider her mouth. Fleeting heat flushed through her, recalling the soft, acquiescent feel of his tongue between her lips. However, he decided against it, instead using his grip on her head to force her eyes to his.  
  
At their rather telling situation, the doctor's façade finally began to crumple. It was only then that Starling realized that she was pressed against him, feeling light chuckles tickle her skin as they rumbled through his chest. "Your audacity never ceases to amaze me," he complimented softly, a smile on his lips though his eyes were solemn, serious. His right arm finally left the wall, falling limply at his side.  
  
"I think you would get rather bored with me if I started doing every damn thing you asked when you asked."  
  
"Hmmm..." he agreed lowly, brows arching in challenge. "Persistence can be enticing, but also tedious. I asked a question."  
  
"How many questions have I asked you that you refused to answer?" she shot back, holding his gaze in full lack of fear, knowing such implicit trust still took him by surprise. A tug at her hair would render her neck snapped cleanly in half. However, while his hold was controlling, there was no threat behind it. He merely wanted to see her eyes, to dissect what she neglected to convey through telling pupils that never told a lie. "What's the difference if I don't know the answer?"  
  
That earned her a particularly sharp pull, her startled ears detecting a whimper passed through parted lips. She felt like kicking herself. Clarice Starling does not whimper.  
  
"While I find your elusiveness charming at times, my dear," Dr. Lecter rasped, eyes ablaze with provoked nuisance and pleasure, "blatant dishonesty is distasteful and unsightly. If you cannot firstly be honest with yourself, then we do have a long way to go. We have all night, Agent Starling. What do you suggest? How do you propose I...wheedle it out of you?"  
  
"Does my input in this really matter?" she retorted dryly, aware that her position was beginning send small aching pains up her neck and across her shoulders. "You're almost certain to do what you want, despite my reasoning."  
  
"I'd rather approach the topic collaboratively. Who knows, Clarice? It might be fuuuun. Either way, we won't get anywhere until you decide why it is that you are here." Slowly, the hold on her hair relinquished and he allowed her space, moving back as an unexpected cold wave of air smacked her unprepared form. Starling instinctively raised her hands to her head, pulling renegade strands from her eyes and holding them back, locking gazes with him again.  
  
After a long minute, she spoke. "Why am I here, was that it?"  
  
"Partly," he agreed. "I want to know why you believe you are here. What brought you here and why. Why did you, astute, cunning federal agent that you are, point your car to this lovely establishment rather than the more plausible road to Washington? I will not ask again."  
  
"Doctor..." Starling sighed, her voice trembling. "I'm not sure that these are answers I want to know right now."  
  
"It's a little late to institute conditionals, my dear. Beggars cannot be choosers."  
  
"That's an overused line."  
  
"Overused but constructive." Dr. Lecter grinned, stepping back further. The temptation was on her to follow him, but she did not trust her legs away from the immediate safety of the wall. "Practical. Tell me, Clarice. Tell me if we are to get anywhere."  
  
"Give me time."  
  
"We have all the time you want," he replied softly, a startling contradictory mimic of `This is all the time you'll ever have.' All in all, she liked this better. And, it occurred to her, he was right. Away from civilization, away from home, away from Pearsall and the FBI, they did have all the time in the world to discuss these matters. For the millionth time, her mind replayed the option that returning at all was a questionable state. "Start slowly, if you like."  
  
When she started speaking, Starling knew she wouldn't be able to stop. Standing before his cage ten years ago, she had avoided an answer she didn't want to deliver in the same fashion, only to lose herself in explanation when the words finally poured from reluctant lips. "I answered your letter firstly because..." Her eyes shot upward in silent plea for him to assure her that she didn't have to do this. All she found was a nod of encouragement, his look imploring her to continue. "Because when I came home that night...I was already...listening to you. In my mind. I swear, Dr. Lecter...it doesn't matter how far you go...you're still..."  
  
Though his eyes hadn't changed, she knew he was drinking in her words. Savoring them. When she neglected to continue, tongue-tied, he stepped forward a bit, tapping the base of her skull lightly before pulling back again, being sure to caress her cheek before contact was withdrawn.  
  
She shuddered with a nod. "Mhmm. Always there. When I read the letter, I knew I would regret it if I didn't go. I would always wonder. I'm confused. I've been warring with myself since I answered you..." With an inconclusive breath, she trailed off, finally daring to look away. "But I don't regret doing that. I needed to. Our last meeting was...wrong."  
  
At last he broke in, coaxing her eyes back to his. There was impatience nipping at his voice. "Wrong?"  
  
"Not just me, Doctor," she said firmly. "I was wrong for what I sa...did. I really thought it would change something, I guess. Neither of us were acting our best that night."  
  
"Oh really?" His brows arched again.  
  
"All due respect...what the hell was that thing you put me in?"  
  
At that, he cracked a brief smile. "I'm hurt, Clarice. You didn't like it?"  
  
"It was..."  
  
"Not you."  
  
"Yeah...not me." Starling looked off thoughtfully. "Truth be told, Dr. Lecter, it was a collision of your fashion sense with Paul Krendler's."  
  
It was a deep insult--she could tell by the way his face wrinkled in mock astonishment that she had the audacity to compare him with the deceased. Instead of vocalizing his opposition, however, he merely shrugged and replied, "It's not a taste I particularly favor, myself."  
  
Her eyes narrowed. "You said it was beautiful."  
  
"On you, of course. I wouldn't mind experimenting with a few styles, assuming you're agreeable. A man can learn to like anything." Dr. Lecter winked suggestively. "Was that the only part of that evening that you found erroneous on my part?"  
  
Starling frowned, knowing her vain attempt to sidetrack him had predictably floundered. This man wouldn't stop until he had exactly what he wanted.  
  
Or perhaps he would, but she dared not issue the question. Not after her promise of a thousand years. Her current position was most telling. Captured here in his eyes, trapped but able to escape. Could she fight him? She thought so. Did she want to? Not at all.  
  
Whups...  
  
It was easy to dismiss her earlier frustration at his cruelly played little prank. She didn't want to begin to recall everything that had slipped carelessly from her lips as he feigned unconsciousness.  
  
"No," Starling said at last, interrupting her strain of obstructive rambling.  
  
"What else?"  
  
"Can we come back to this?"  
  
"You won't find the answer anywhere in this room, Clarice, nor can you construe it as I press you with more questions," Dr. Lecter reminded her subtly. "If you lie, I will know."  
  
"I know." She rolled her eyes. "You can be really redundant sometimes."  
  
He grinned slightly. "Circumstances are a tad different now, wouldn't you agree? Everyone can use a little reminding now and then."  
  
"Everyone except you, right?"  
  
His smile broadened. "Of course." Then, as though to antagonize her, he stepped back again, far enough that she could make it to the door if she fought him. Fight to escape this questioning, these answers she didn't want relinquished. She might not get far, but most assuredly further than anyone he had matched wits with in the past. As though reading her thoughts, or confirming that his action was designed with exactly that in mind, his eyes wandered briefly to the door, then back to her. Slowly. "You are free to run," he whispered with heartbreaking stillness. "Away from your problems, hoping they will take leave on their own accord. After all, you did so well, repressing those itching complications for ten long years, didn't you? Nodding when it was appropriate, voicing your state to find yourself surrounded by the self-proclaimed enemy. Yes, you did well. Better than anyone else in your position could. But where would you go now, Clarice? Now that you have escaped? Back  
home? Back to those you so eagerly expunged from your moral standings, running here to the counsel of the monster instead? Hmmm? Perhaps if you confront the answers to these questions, we can begin that assistance you crave so desperately."  
  
Moisture threatened her eyes, blurring her view, but she refused to let it escape down her cheeks. Starling looked back to him after studying the door, the passage to all those things he described. The way home. A home she had come to know frighteningly well over the years. A home she hated.  
  
What was worse? Subjecting herself to the great analysis of a man she should hate with just as much venom, or returning to the place that brought her here to begin with? Of all the people in the world, everyone she knew, she summarized that that right here, in his presence, even with his annoying questions, aggravating jokes, and frighteningly accurate personal insight, there was nowhere else she could ever want to be.  
  
Say that out loud?  
  
It's too late for me, she thought. I've been standing at the beginning for ten years, speaking of overkill.  
  
"Why would I run?" she heard her voice ask, not sure if the question was directed at him or herself. "I knew what I was getting myself into when I came up here. Of course I did."  
  
Dr. Lecter only nodded at her revelation, his eyes remaining unaffected. There were only so many ways to raise any sort of reaction out of this man. "Of course. Knowing it is only a part, Clarice. You are at the brink of the phase many never wish to see. Now then. Start at the beginning. What else did you find disagreeable about my behavior that evening, other than the rather droll wardrobe selection?"  
  
"Why do you want to know?"  
  
His head tilted a fraction in conveyed annoyance.  
  
"All right...stupid question," Starling agreed, puffing out a deep breath.  
  
"What was that you said about redundancy, my dear?"  
  
With a smirk, she chuckled lightly, hoping to dissipate the tension in the air without success. "A double-edged sword, I guess. `Takes one to know one'?"  
  
"Stop stalling."  
  
The blunt command in his voice surprised her. Patience was again wearing thin, she could see. She wondered if he had arrived at the plausibly accurate conclusion himself and was simply eager to hear her own conviction and verify his precision. Or, she pondered, perhaps he really didn't know the answer this time. It seemed ludicrous, but there was a first for everything.  
  
His gaze was turning into a glare, bordering intolerable. Licking her lips, she knew she would have to blurt it, scream it, even if she didn't know what it was just yet. Apart of her had already reached a conclusion, or they wouldn't be here, this question wouldn't seek an answer with such persistence. And finally, when it was nearly too much to bear, she heard herself speak. "You were just beginning to make sense...and...you left."  
  
So that was it? Wait a minute...wasn't that her fault?  
  
No. Not completely. There were always two sides to everything.  
  
Clearly, he didn't agree. Dr. Lecter perked an interested eyebrow, one that seemed to scream superiority, and replied with no reservation, "As much as I recall, I was on a rather strict time table that evening. I would have been happy to--"  
  
"What did you expect, Doctor? That I would wake up, unattended, drugged with morphine, and suddenly not care about putting you back behind bars? What kind of crap do you think I'm made of? Maybe if you hadn't been so preoccupied with Paul Krendler we could've avoided this sticky mess." Starling knew she was trying her luck, but was beyond caring at this point. The declaration, the charge free from her lips, felt good. Liberating. "You had your little symbolic meal and left. And then you contact me when the worst is over, assuming the storm is clear and that it's all right to play again."  
  
A wave of coldness washed over her. Ouch. Had she hit a mark or was she talking without thinking again?  
  
"I'm not accustomed to being tested like this," he warned gently, his voice perilous.  
  
"So it's okay to ask a question as long as I give you the answer you want?" Starling fired back, ignoring the dangerous shivers that crawled up her arms, perversely enjoying the lack of vacillation in her tone, even if it was audacious and foolish. This was what he asked for. "You can't train me to please your every whim. For Christ's sake, get a dog, if that's what you want. I'm sorry, but that's it, Doctor. Take it or leave it. You can't have it both ways."  
  
Dr. Lecter's eyes blazed in warning, but she did not glance at the bait. What she wanted was in hindsight now, forming into tangibility. Her impossible desire, the thing she had turned her back on for a decade. If this was it, if there was nothing more to it than what stood before her, just out of her reach, then she had no choice but to fight her ground. Hell if she let him decide everything.  
  
Especially this fetish with distance. His choice, it was always his choice. At once too close to breathe comfortably, and now aggravatingly far apart. Boldly, she took a step forward, away from the wall, glad when he didn't retract to gain it back. Air chilled her backside where she had lingered for support in balance for what seemed like forever, but she didn't need it anymore.  
  
At last, when the tension seemed its highest, the darkness in his eyes faded with a light, poignant smile. "That's very bold of you, Agent Starling."  
  
"Don't call me that!" she snapped. "It's too late."  
  
"Too late for what?"  
  
"For whatever I was..." Her eyes narrowed. "Don't you go changing the topic."  
  
"I wouldn't dream of it." Intently, his gaze wandered over her, head-to-toe, but not in the same maddening scrutiny she had endured time and time again. She saw what he saw, reflecting so gaudily in his glimmering pupils. This brave little bundle, quivering in confusion and outrage, both screaming for release and terrified of crossing the border. "I left you," he summarized, meeting her eyes once more, his emotionless, like always revealing nothing. "I left you to become the subject of the media, the discussion of board meetings, the question mark at the end of every statement. You are displeased with the manner I conducted myself at our last parting. And yet, Clarice, the issue remains. Why?"  
  
"Why what?" She spoke almost through gritted teeth. Just once, she would like to see him take the heat for something. Everyone knew how skilled he was at subjecting it to others. Hannibal Lecter: The World's Greatest Buck-Passer.  
  
"You are still here. Despite that, Clarice, you are still here." His eyes softened further, tantalizingly. "Why?"  
  
Fuming, Starling growled raucously, anger tickling her senses to the point she was sure lightning would shoot out of flexing fingertips. "Can't you ever focus on your own problems?" she snarled. "Why I'm here is obvious, or should be. But YOU--"  
  
"Is it an apology you seek?"  
  
That threw her off guard. "I don't know!"  
  
"Then why persist? You have spoken your mind and given me some interesting food for thought. That still doesn't settle the reasoning behind your presence here."  
  
"You spent a long time getting that out of me just to shrug it off like that!" She waved her arms demonstratively. "You make like you're going to tear my throat out, and--"  
  
"Are you disappointed that I didn't?"  
  
"What the fuck kind of bullshit question is that?"  
  
Aha! She had it now. Something significant sparked within his cleverly masked but clearly agitated eyes. And then she was forced back, pinned again to the wall, iron hands clamping her arms, teeth bared menacingly in her face. Ashamedly, this display did little more than tempt her to melt like heated candle wax, but she forced herself to stand her ground.  
  
"I let you decide, Clarice," he hissed. "I placed the pieces at your disposal. As much as I would like to, I can't be there to hold your hand, to tell you where to point yourself, to lead you in the direction I would love to see you follow. I couldn't influence your decision then, no more than I could force you to follow the instructions in my letter. A stepping-stone at the most. You have progressed. But really, what was the difference? What have I offered you tonight that I didn't place before you that night? What do you know now that you didn't know then? What have you seen materialize into truth that has changed you so radically?" His piercing words made her flinch, and she hoped desperately it didn't reflect through her eyes. Bared teeth nearer, nearer, targeting...no, he was backing away now. The hold on her arms loosened, his thumbs idly caressing reddened skin. In deference to his own calming outrage, the fire in his eyes sparked before finally beginning to wither.  
"You led yourself here when you could have said no," he answered for her, tone octaves lower. "That is the difference. You saw a society you hadn't seen before, despite the negativity of the past. I offered you a way out. Months earlier, you would never have accepted it, or used it to find me for the thrill of fortune seekers. Tonight you have had the chance no one else has before you, and you turned it down."  
  
Words hissed at her throat. She couldn't allow another lengthy silence to brood on already-known answers. "Because..." The fight in her voice abandoned her. "I don't want to turn you in."  
  
"That's very obvious. Why?"  
  
"What good could come of it?" Starling sighed ardently. "Except for society, of course. I know what they would do to you back there. They'd dance on your grave. I didn't want that kind of publicity. I didn't want that on my shoulders. I'd be just as happy knowing you're alive out there somewhere, living it up."  
  
"Did you know four months ago?"  
  
"Of course."  
  
"Again...why?"  
  
"You said it!" Her voice had taken a swift edge to it, almost to the brink of whining. "At the lake house. I'm not repeating it. I chose to stop."  
  
Cut. Freeze frame. She loved the way his face fell blank. Astonished. Yes, yes, you heard me right. You asked for it and you heard me just fine.  
  
She could be very blunt when she put her mind to it. The disclosure in itself also scared her to death. When she found her voice again, Starling cleared her throat, unsure whether to shrink at her latest profession or build from it. "I came here because you asked me to," she said with crushing straightforwardness. "Because you're the only one that could."  
  
A flicker. Pause. Dr. Lecter pulled back just enough to study her eyes, to measure her sincerity. Seconds filled with uncomfortable silence, and their eyes battled together.  
  
I came here to face my demon, she thought dryly, and I fell in love with him instead.  
  
He looked like he wanted to kiss her and shake her, love her and kill her. A shimmer of the devastatingly incompatible façade she had encountered that July evening, a reminder. As the tension continued to escalate, she felt defiance surge through her, unable to do anything but obey. "Hesitant, Dr. Lecter? Your position is most telling."  
  
Game set match. She asked for it.  
  
The next thing she knew, she was pressed hard against the wall, a brutally soft force at her lips. Fight promptly left her, if she had intended to fight. Starling surprised herself, not realizing how hungry she had grown in this verbal toss for his kiss. Sensually, his mouth coaxed her from the brink of fury, venting his through incongruous viciousness that matched her own. She decided, lost in limbo, unsure if it was Heaven or Hell, that this was the only way he could bring himself to hurt her. His grip abandoned her arms, bringing her instead to him as indignation calmed. Should fire have a taste, she determined it would match his tongue, now invading her mouth. Involuntary sounds left her throat, fueling him further, and their kiss forfeited the battle, succumbing to inevitable zeal. Fury surged within her. She was still angry, still frustrated, but lost. It was the unavoidable conclusion to a war she truly didn't want to fight with him, a conflict neither could win.  
  
Finally she pulled away, gasping for air, regarding the way she clutched at his shoulders, nails embedding into his skin. His eyes were aflame, studying her with stunning intensity that she would never get used to. And at last, the fire started to die, leaving passive indifference.  
  
What was this? A decision? Had she come to her decision so soon?  
  
Declarations and returns, arguments and osculates. Reasoning vacated the air.  
  
What am I doing here?  
  
Hadn't they just covered that?  
  
He knew it. The rebirth of conflict, the glory of indecisiveness. Even as she licked her lips to taste him there, eying his in sudden desperation to close the space between them again, she knew it wasn't that simple. Nothing ever was.  
  
"There is something else," he said solemnly.  
  
"I can't make a decision. Not yet." Starling breathed out, her words paining her, even if they knew it would come to this. "I'm not just compromising my life...it's everything that comes with it. What do you want, Dr. Lecter, before I walk myself into a trap?"  
  
"What I want is obvious, Clarice. It has been for a decade."  
  
"Elaborate? I'm tired of riddles. This thing is giving me a headache. Just once indulge me in a straight answer?"  
  
Dr. Lecter's eyes narrowed, but he declined further banter, indulging her now, perhaps out of his own acquiescence. While she had expected him to, this move was not completely unanticipated. On a level, the battle had worn them both effectively. What was the point of continuing this fight? "I want you, Clarice Starling. I want you with me. I always have." He sighed, stepping back to allow her space. "But what I want more, perhaps, is your happiness. My own avarice is outweighed by the price of your freedom. I will not take anything from you that you don't want taken." And, with devastating simplicity, he met her eyes again, releasing a shuddering breath, and whispered, "I love you too much for that."  
  
Without warning, tears sprang to her eyes, but she blinked hard, beckoning them back, too slow to stop one that skated down her cheek. For a woman unaccustomed to crying, she had expressed her share this evening. Perhaps subconsciously, his hand followed it, rolling it onto his thumb where he licked it up, gaze unfaltering from her own.  
  
"I'm not saying no," she whispered in an attempt to sooth. "I'm just saying..."  
  
"Not now?"  
  
Wantonly, Starling nodded. She hated herself that instant. "I need time to think. Any decision of this magnitude takes time."  
  
"Of course." Though he wasn't fighting her, his tone was heart-wrenchingly unresolved. "But you understand that if you return..."  
  
"I know." His eyes were becoming intolerable. As though just blinking awake, she realized she was still beside the sink, pressed against the wall, having not progressed more than a few steps in any direction in what felt like hours. Now she spoke words that she didn't believe in, stating something that echoed as so resoundingly familiar she wanted to vomit. "I need to think, though. I need to consider these things. Away from you."  
  
Movement tickled her legs with the desire to simply curl up and rest, but she fought it, straying back to the bedroom side of the motel. Even as he didn't follow, she felt his gaze never leave her. The air hung over them thickly.  
  
"I don't know where I'm going..." she said, reaching for her purse. "Who knows...I might just get another room here." They both knew she would do no such thing. "If I end up back in Washington..." She used her checkbook to scribble a number out on a leaf-loose scrap of paper. "It's too dangerous to use my regular phone. I've had taps on everything since...well...yeah. I got my own cell..." Letting out a breath, irritated at his silence, though understanding, she glanced back up. "I'm tired of the games, Hannibal. No more letters, no more articles in journals. I know you wouldn't trust me to let me contact you. So...just...call me."  
  
At that, his eyes flared, whether at her words or her unfaltering use of his given name without invitation, she didn't know. The number was consigned to the table beside the window. He did not look at it.  
  
She intended to leave just like that, without any structured goodbye, but of course, he would not allow it. As she reached for the door, his voice perturbed the air, unsettlingly neutral. The temptation was on her to run back to him and leap into waiting arms, but she couldn't. Whatever reasoning her mind conjured seemed both preposterous and logical. A very real part of her believed she could walk away with this, wrestle with herself, and decide in time where she was destined to end up. Her logical sense scolded her for such outlandish stupidity. Did she really think she could leave this, then turn around and come back? What if he didn't let her?  
  
"Clarice."  
  
Starling froze, her hand wrapped around the knob.  
  
"We can never do things the easy way, can we?"  
  
Smiling softly, she turned to him at last, chilled. "Normality wasn't made for people like us. I'll understand if you don't call."  
  
Instead of voicing opposition at such a suggestion, he merely nodded. Something fell within her. Hard. "Goodbye."  
  
"Goodbye." 


	10. On and on..

A/N: Last chapter. Thanks to everyone who has reviewed. Oh, and be patient…this is rather long.  
  
~~~  
  
Rain was cold—she liked rain. Liked the way it sounded against the roof of her duplex, liked the way it refreshed her as she jogged. Even more, she loved storms. Long, violent storms, racked with lightning and thunder rumbling in the distance, or crashing above her head. Clear nights and sunny days had not and would never describe her life. Nature's shower. Rain.  
  
It was raining now, and she hated it.  
  
Starling had almost made it to her car without breaking, but the feel of water skating down her face seemed to trigger tears. Against the hood of the rental, she collapsed, burying her face in her arms and letting out a few good sobs.  
  
It's not too late…not too late. You can still go back.  
  
Yes, she could. And perhaps, out of the continually pushed but willful goodness of his heart—that which wasn't supposed to exist—he would forgive her yet again. She wondered if he would be in the window if she turned around, beckoning her return. Though she hadn't said no, it was close enough.  
  
Starling pulled away after a minute, plastered hair clinging to her forehead. Small goose bumps sprinkled across her skin. For long minutes, she stared at the car, this vehicle that she loved, this chariot back to Washington. A place she didn't want to go.  
  
So why am I here?  
  
Wasn't it obvious? She loved being a tease. Leading men on only to back away when things turned serious. After all, she had come all this way, knowing at least in theory the way he felt about her. And, in fairness to herself, she had thought she had everything worked out. Every step since she answered his letter had wheedled her further from the person she once was. The person she didn't want to be. There were the hours of debating as she rushed to beat the clock, terrified that she wouldn't make it to the payphone in time. Watching meat rotate on a piece of Shoney's undoubtedly authentic silver, heaving a man into a car when she could have chosen the trunk, even if he was faking his unconsciousness. Each time battling the will to turn around. Each time reaching the same conclusion.  
  
What made now so different?  
  
I'm here because I just can't get enough of saying no to a good thing.  
  
Ouch…she attempted to shake the thought away to little avail.  
  
Of course, she hadn't exactly said no, just not now. Was there any variation? Did she really think she could go home, agonize and brew, arrive at her conclusion and return?  
  
("Another heartache…another failed romance…on and on…does anybody know what we are living for?")  
  
The evidence was indisputable. Not now and no carried the same weight when compared on the scale.  
  
Did she really want to go home?  
  
No, Starling thought, lowering herself into the car. But where else is there?  
  
Well, that was obvious.  
  
What was the point of coming here if you were just going to say goodbye? Do you call that closure?  
  
The heater assaulted her as she started the car, but she made no move to adjust its settings. Rivers of water splashed away as she activated the wipers, and a familiar Beatles song hummed gently through the speakers, courtesy of the local radio station she found a few miles outside of town.  
  
Black night. Black ugly night.  
  
Relying on habit, Starling steered the car out of the parking lot. She made the usual checks. Room keys? Left on the table inside. Luggage? In the back—not having bothered to move the suitcases in when she arrived. Her arms were full of something else.  
  
Why am I doing this?  
  
More tedious attempts at logic. She was beginning to annoy herself.  
  
Hah!  
  
Logicality forewarned what would happen when she arrived home. A flash revealed her unwelcoming duplex, the same darkness she encountered that night long ago, that night she received the letter that initiated this crazy, fruitless escapade. What had accepting his offer accomplished? Fooling herself? Teasing him?  
  
Her mouth tingled with his kiss. Cold patches of skin began to burn with the remnants of his touch.  
  
And tomorrow, should she keep driving and not stop, she would go to work as though it were any other day. She would nod her apologies to Pearsall for her abrupt leave, make up some story and return to her solitary cubicle. The curse of redundancy. Life would go on. It always did.  
  
What a life it was.  
  
Thus, the pattern for the rest of her days was set in stone. In time, she would come to mourn her choice, the predictability of taking the path traveled again and again. She would become one of those old spinsters in a rickety house full of cats and spiders.  
  
("I planned each charted course…each careful step…along the byway.")  
  
Shelbyville passed in a blur and she was soon on the interstate, continuing at a moderate speed, telling herself she was eager to put distance between herself and Dr. Lecter, but knowing it wasn't true.  
  
What was that she had planned for herself? A shell of a life?  
  
Familiarity stained her as wine stains carpet. For each mile recovered toward Washington, she was increasingly aware of how very much she didn't want to return. Back to that?  
  
("Can you type and file? Can you take dictation?")  
  
Why had she come all this way if only to turn around? Was it because she had to see? Had to see if the tabloids were right? To test her resolve? To confirm her deepest fear?  
  
Of all the people in world to fall in love with…  
  
The car swerved on that note.  
  
("People will say we're in love. Would you ever say to me, stop? If you loved me, you'd stop? I love you too much for that.")  
  
Funny how that word seemed to haunt her with each lasting encounter. Was fate trying to tell her something? Or was she just too cynical to believe that she was supposed to be with a cannibalistic fugitive from the law who was twice her age?  
  
No…not cynical. Bitter. Why her?  
  
Her own admission tainted the night.  
  
("I'm not repeating it. I chose to stop.")  
  
She had refrained from saying the words that she withheld all her life in fear of her self-made curse. Everyone she loved was dead, and this time, she was fleeing the scene. Words were cheap and untrustworthy. Still, she had said it, one way or another. At least he had that much.  
  
Starling frowned at herself. So that was it? Her decision made?  
  
Why did it feel like the wrong decision? Don't answer that…  
  
I hate life…life hates me.  
  
Sure. That's it.  
  
Before their renewed acquaintance, she had awoken often to the night, sure his eyes on her, watching her. In the darkness, she would contrive his face from wandering particles of nothingness. An empty bedchamber. Disregard those shapes in the corners. Shadows playing on streetlights could make that harmless lamp on her dresser contrive into the image she so desired.  
  
Desired? Even then?  
  
Knowing now what she had suppressed for ten years was distorting memories. She identified hazy feelings, giving them the diagnoses she so long avoided. The water skating down her windshield seemed to outline his face, each contour flawless. Again and again…  
  
Another flash. Riding back home from Memphis, staring out the plane window, playing old Oklahoma! songs through her head, bits and pieces of what she remembered.  
  
("Your eyes mustn't glow like mine…Sweetheart, they're suspecting things… Some people claim that you are to blame as much as I. Don't praise my charm too much. Don't look so vain with me. Don't stand in the rain with me. Don't dance all night with me, 'til the stars fade from above. They'll see it's all right with me. People will say we're in love.")  
  
It had been enough to persuade her to buy the film, and with the exception of a few, Starling wasn't a fan of musicals.  
  
A wry smile drew across her lips. For ten years he was stuck in her head, much like that incessant song.  
  
And do you think, by going back, that anything is going to change?  
  
No, she knew it wasn't going to change. She knew nothing could change it. Nothing except what she left in that motel room.  
  
On the freeway, the car came to a screeching halt. A flash of headlights from behind shined in forewarning, and she steered to the shoulder, killing the engine, breathless and tired. Exhausted. This debate was so old, so unworthy arguing. It didn't matter where she was; the conclusion would always be the same. From fleeing the comfort and security of bond to warring with herself as she sped reluctantly back to place that had ended it for her.  
  
Which was more abusive? More dangerous? Which had wronged her, broken promises, sneered at her, kicked her while she was down? Which had nurtured her, consoled her, nursed her wounds when she fell, offered support and guidance, even after she turned away?  
  
A prickly sensation stung her eyes again. Once more she was crying. Starling cursed aloud and made a futile attempt to regain control. That only prompted sobs, and in defeat, she curled against the steering wheel, listening to the gentle hum against the car roof, harsh splatters to the windshield. She cried long and hard, cried until her body was quivering for release, cried until she could produce no more tears. Even then, the sobs didn't cease. For long moments, her breathing came heavy, panting for air as she finally began to calm. And then the air fell awkwardly silent. Slowly, Starling turned her eyes upward, gazing to the black street ahead, shimmering with a few lights approaching from the distance. At the end of the road—somewhere—awaited Washington. Awaited the rest of her life.  
  
If her decision hurt this much, it couldn't possibly be the right decision.  
  
She bit her lip in thought, leaned back, and huffed out a sigh. After a minute of recollection, she jerked alert again, unhooking the safety belt and twisting awkwardly in the seat, searching for the purse she had deposited there after Dr. Lecter fell to the pavement at the beginning of his performance. Query found, she fished inside and retrieved her cell phone, reclined again and stared at it.  
  
("I'm tired of the games, Hannibal. No more letters, no more articles in journals. I know you wouldn't trust me to let me contact you. So…just…call me.")  
  
"Ring," she whispered, voice raspy and tasting of tears. "Ring, goddamn you."  
  
Yes, because he's going to call the minute you realize what an insensitive bitch you've been. Because real life works that way. Honey, you'd be lucky if he's still in the motel room.  
  
How many times had she worked herself into this position? Why did it always end the same?  
  
Because she kept making the same decisions, only to continuously experience the same heartache time and time again. Her faith was misplaced. Old habits die hard. Old, destructive habits.  
  
Life sure as hell ain't the way it is in the movies. That's for sure.  
  
If it was, the phone's cue had come and gone. Someone should speak to the director.  
  
"Ring," she repeated fruitlessly, her tone narrowing against sobs once more. "Please ring!"  
  
Nothing.  
  
"Goddammit!" Irately, she forcefully hooked the phone to her inside pocket, starting the car up once more and pulling forward. She had to wait until a few headlights had passed before she made the U-turn, seizing the side of the highway that felt more like home. The accelerator pumped with handling as her pulse began to race.  
  
"You win!" Starling hissed to the night. The third reference to the game this evening, but this time, she could feel conviction in her voice. "You always fucking win!"  
  
The road back to Shelbyville seemed longer to cover, even at her heightened speed. Every few seconds, her eyes darted the clock on the dashboard, silently daring it to tick off another minute, willing time to suspend just enough to ensure that he would be there when she got back.  
  
Her renewed decision charged through her like adrenaline, alongside fear that it was too late. But she couldn't focus on fear, lest she lose her nerve. Never mind the fact that Dr. Lecter had no reason to linger, no duty to feed her hopes after she had devastated his time and time again. Forget that she had tried his patience and good will before, and that even before she should have rightfully had no motivation for extending his hand in assistance in the first place.  
  
It was nearly nine o'clock, though it felt much later. Smalltime towns were either wild after dark or desolate. A few cars were stationed outside Shoney's, most likely belonging to the employees. The payphone booth across the street was vacant, as was the parking lot of the 7/11 behind it. A few teenagers lingered outside, smoking joints and laughing at something, though there wasn't a car in sight. Perhaps they were waiting for a ride, or an opportunity to rob the place.  
  
Clarice Starling saw none of this. Ahead was the glow of the Motel 6, deeming everything else as a mere nonentity.  
  
The space she had vacated on her leave was still open, but she chose the nearest to her, pulling in with a large squeak of brakes that needed to be inspected soon. In the midst of the past few months, she had neglected things such as routine trips to local garages. It was still raining, pouring now. An umbrella rested in the backseat, but she didn't bother. Starling threw the door open and ran to the room without closing it, uncaring of what might become of the rental's interior. Her drying skin shriveled at the touch of new rain, and she jogged so fiercely that her teeth caught her tongue and blood spilt into her mouth. All sensory was forfeited for sight.  
  
Cold and dripping, Starling breathed harshly as she met the door, exhausted, as though returning from a long run. The distance between the car and the motel seemed endless, but she had covered tracks and was here now. A sharp pain shot up her side. Ignoring all physical reactions, she raised a hand to the door and had to bite her lip to keep from pounding.  
  
And she waited…  
  
And waited…  
  
And waited…  
  
More knocks, these intense and fraught. Starling's eyes widened with desperation as something cold began to reel her in, reeking with dreary acknowledgement. Choking out a sob, her last attempts were lackadaisical, her fist uncurling as she hit the door with her open palm before ceasing altogether.  
  
The area beneath the door and what she could see from the half-drawn curtains was dark. Its resident was gone.  
  
Gone.  
  
What fell within her was indistinguishable, for it coincided both with loss and the foreknowledge of that loss. Starling was caught between sobs, unable to cry anymore. She turned and leaned against the door, sliding until she rested at the sidewalk, drying awkwardly as wind blew rain over her. Hope was empty, and sitting there, she admitted that she had known since her revived conviction that she would return to an empty motel room. Perhaps it was only to prove herself correct while clinging to that distant wish that she was mistaken.  
  
However, as she had established with herself time and time again, Dr. Lecter had no reason to stay here. Why would he with the conclusiveness of her leave? In a Motel 6? The thought was preposterous. Starling snickered at herself. No, he most likely left directly after she did, having somewhere warm to retreat, closer than Washington and outside this wretched little town.  
  
What was left for her? She carried not the key to her motel room, though she knew retrieving it would be fairly simple. A fuel-up on her car and she could continue down the highway, opposite of Washington, a place she never intended to see again. Starling had seen enough criminals disappear to gauge how to pull it off successfully. She would look forward to tabloid assumptions—all of which were certain to accuse and make postulations of Dr. Lecter's plausible involvement.  
  
Or perhaps she could sit here forever, in the rain, not move for lack of energy and will.  
  
("Listen to my heart, can you hear it say, 'Come back to me…and forgive everything…'")  
  
Hah. Forgiveness. Even Jesus wasn't that magnanimous.  
  
Wearily, Starling forced her eyes upward; her eyes that were leaked clean of tears. She looked at her car, the driver's side door still open, swaying a bit in the wind. If she were to drive anywhere, she should start now. The seat was undoubtedly soaked, the interior perhaps ruined, but she didn't care. Chances were, she would never again set foot in the rental agency, and that it would soon be left abandoned in a ditch for another.  
  
Something hummed against her hip. Starling rested her head against the door and ignored it. Maybe she didn't have the energy to drive anywhere tonight. The best option was likely to head back to the main office and rent out another room. Another room…she didn't want this one. Sleep suddenly sounded wonderful. She hadn't needed to rest like this in years.  
  
The vibrating at her hip didn't cease, rather continued persistently until coaxing her from her daydream back to the present. A flash and her heart skipped a beat, her chilled, nimble fingers working to pry the phone from where she had left it. For a minute, she didn't want to answer it, didn't want to look at the computerized caller identification for fear of imminent disappointment.  
  
But only for a minute. Starling eagerly brought the cell to her ear, raising her free hand to the other side of her head to block out the sound of the storm. "Hello?" she demanded, holding her breath.  
  
A pause, and just like that, without saying a word, she knew it was him. It was instinct, knowing he would take a second to read her tone. Relief warmed her cold skin, spreading from her toes to her fingertips, and she let out a breath to release her former burden.  
  
"How are you holding up, Clarice?" he asked a minute later, tone low, discarding the need for salutations and common trades. As though he was standing before her, they always said hello without speaking it, without needing to. Undoubtedly, he had read her understanding before needing the employment of dialogue.  
  
"Not so good."  
  
"Oh? Where are you? Home already?"  
  
Starling narrowed her eyes cynically. He never asked a question like that without knowing the answer. Dead hope revived within her tired veins, beginning its dawdling, never presumptuous flow. "Are you losing your hearing, Doctor? It sounds like God is throwing a temper tantrum out here."  
  
The sound of his laughter eased her, soothed her, reassured her. "And why might you be outside in this mess?"  
  
"I'm at the motel, Dr. Lecter…I came back." The words left her deliberately.  
  
"Hmmm. I see." She bit her lip, not attempting to piece a reply, sensing the indefiniteness in his voice. The next question was inevitable. "Why?"  
  
One word. One syllable. Three letters. Perhaps the most difficult question in the English language to answer, structured in any context. A feared whisper belonging to an owner who understood in every sense how maddening its release could be. Even as Starling knew she stood on thin ice, she could feel her patience begin to ebb. And she knew, even as she fought the temptation to scream her acclaimed realization, the thorough feel of self-disgust, that she could not forfeit and bow to his every whim. That would compromise returning for the wrong reasons as a person he did not want, and would not accept.  
  
A question. The hardest to answer. Why? Why had she returned after leaving with such uncertainty? Where did confusion end and blatant recognition commence? How do you begin to explain yourself to this man?  
  
In that fleeting instant, Starling was thankful for their distance. She had endured his stare of silent inquiry enough for one night. Pressed hard against a motel lavatory, consumed in a sea of colors and sensations she wished to deny, but couldn't.  
  
"Why," she repeated at last, knowing instantly that he would recognize it as stalling for more time.  
  
"Quicker than that," he warned, voice dangerous with controlled patience. "Or perhaps you would prefer to continue at another time? It would be wise for you to get out of the rain, Clarice."  
  
In an instant, she shot to her feet, dripping and suppressing a shiver at the clingy rainwater. "No, Doctor," she disagreed, hand pressing harder against her free ear as she raced back into the storm, diving into her car and seizing her purse, ignoring the soft mushiness of the seat and settling for a minute to catch her breath. "I'd much rather talk now."  
  
"What are you doing?"  
  
"Grabbing my purse. I want to 'get out of the rain' as you suggested, but in a motel room. Not my car."  
  
"Oh?" She heard his silent inquiry for elaboration with fleeting familiarity.  
  
"Truth be told," she said, salvaging her sharp breaths, taking a minute to enjoy their exchange without competing with the storm. "I'm dead tired and I don't feel like going out tonight." Starling was unaware of the secreted innuendo in her tone until after the statement was released. When he did not refer to it, she knew he had concluded the same.  
  
"Don't bother in returning to the check-in office," he muttered. "Your room card is lodged in the seal of the door."  
  
She froze in place, hand halfway wrenched for her checkbook before her nerves betrayed her and the purse fell to the car floor. It rolled beside the gas pedal and rocked to stillness. "What?" Astonishment tainted her voice, and she made no attempt to hide it.  
  
Dr. Lecter hummed in modest amusement. "You sound so surprised, my dear. Ah well, I suppose that's logical."  
  
"What do you mean, it's in the door?" she barked, undecided between anger and shock. There was no need to pause and categorize her emotions, as she knew he preferred them raw and unflavored by artificial spices.  
  
"I should think it's quite clear, Clarice," Dr. Lecter hissed. "Your impending irresolution wasn't too difficult to predict, even as I know you so abhor being instituted in such a fashion. I suppose history really does repeat itself. Though you are wonderfully spontaneous, my dear, I have found a shimmer or two of patterned behavior."  
  
"What are you saying?"  
  
"I'm saying that this continuous vacillation seems to be the only reliable consistency in your life. Never mind outside influences such as myself or your friends back in Washington, but in and of your life. The will to know exactly what it is that you want, but never find it within yourself." He sighed. "In a sense, Clarice, you have been institutionalized. Your illusions of your professional pedestal have always been clear, thus becoming the center of your focus."  
  
Anger and hurt at the truth wheedled into his words flushed through her, but she could not raise her voice in opposition for knowing it was the truth. However, in scarred retaliation, she managed to find something in her throat. "I'm here now, aren't I?" It came out scarred and hurtful—a helpless whimper from a wounded animal.  
  
"Yes," he agreed, not reacting to the winter storm in her voice. "And how soon again, do you think, before you are grasped by an overwhelming sense of conscience?"  
  
Starling felt herself chill again, finally moving from the dry air of the car to the rain once again. There was no need for words as she jogged back, eyes catching what she missed the first time. A thin room card was wedged tightly in the door seal, just as he promised.  
  
When she was inside, she shivered at the customarily lowered room temperature that was seemingly shared by all motel chains. Her eyes fell across the bed where he had lain so shortly before, noting the wrinkling in the comforter had been straightened and that the room, even to the plastic glass she left gathering residue by the sink, looked unused.  
  
But she smelled him here, his cologne, the scent she had subconsciously grown used to. Grown to identify anywhere.  
  
"I have no intention of turning back, Dr. Lecter," she heard herself mutter. Her clothes chilled her skin and clung to her uncomfortably. "I've traveled that road before."  
  
"And how many times have you looked over your shoulder, pondering your remaining options, returned to scout them out, and decided it's for the better if you remain on the safe, taken path?" he retorted. "I will give you this, Clarice: every time you reach this pivotal point, you make it a hair closer to the line."  
  
"And you're standing on the other side of that line with open arms, I'm willing to bet," Starling retorted dryly, unsuccessfully attempting not to shiver again. The thought of venturing once more into the night to retrieve her suitcase was distasteful, but she knew she needed a fresh change of clothes if she wanted to elude a cold.  
  
"I am there, yes. I've wanted this for you since our first encounter. However, I am not saying you will find your satisfaction and utter contentment at my side; this is not about me. It never was."  
  
"I wouldn't be here if it weren't for you," she snapped, not defensive, but feeling the need to counter that statement nonetheless.  
  
He chuckled. "I'm humbled by your need to credit me, Clarice, but really, let's be serious. Had you not met me, your downfall might have been a bit prolonged, I will admit, but it would have come someday. A person founded with your ethics has no place in any conventional society. You associate with corruption everyday."  
  
"Something about removing the cause but not the symptom?"  
  
There was another light-hearted chuckle, perhaps designated to lessen the seriousness of their conversation, but she didn't think so. This trade did not merit alleviating.  She was very aware that her future depended on the outcome, and searing truths already shared and released stung with endearing familiarity.  Though she could not see it now, apart of her started to climb with doubt.  
  
However, Starling did not think it was Dr. Lecter's intention to push her away, rather to enlighten her on a very real likelihood.  He was right, of course.  They had stood here before under different circumstances, tugged ahead but she always looked back for what she might be losing.  What would be left behind.  And every time, she found something, a glimmer of counterfeit reasoning that shined with enough velocity to offer false hope.  
  
"Institutionalized," she repeated at last, understanding layered in her tone.  "Cripes, I'm a lost cause."  
  
"Now now," he scolded softly, soothingly, biting and licking the wounds in the same breath.  "If you were a lost cause, Clarice, I assure you, you wouldn't be here.  Even those malicious symptoms have an antidote."  
  
"So what are you saying?  That…you knew I would come back because I know what I want but I'm…but that I'm not a lost cause, even though…what are you saying?"  
  
"You proved several things to me, in your recent departure," he replied airily, as though avoiding a direct answer, though she knew that wasn't the case.  "You are so close to that line, Clarice.  To tasting the flavor of your own corruption—the corruption that will allow you to escape its creator.  You will make it there someday, perhaps sooner than I credit.  You are unpredictable to me, delightfully so, but I will not pretend it is not unnerving."  The admission left her breathless, and thankfully he continued before she felt obligated to speak.  Though she had known this for years, hearing him confess it seemed to heighten its value.  "I have every faith that you will break free of your prison.  You are your most dangerous adversary, and you are at battle with yourself."  
  
Then he fell silent – inconclusively – though with reason.  He wanted to determine her reaction, taste it through her voice since he was unable to drink it through her eyes.  
  
Starling swallowed hard.  "And after I cross that line?  What then?"  
  
"Then it is up to you."  His tone indicated aloofness, uncaring where she might land, though she knew it was not so.  "My own selfishness is not a factor now, Clarice.  I told you that I wanted you with me, but your release might not coincide with my own desires."  
  
A frigid silence.  The hand clutching the phone began to tremble.  "But it does," she heard herself choke.  A burden heaved off her shoulders.  
  
"Then tell me," he replied simply, his tone masking something else.  "Tell me now and we might spare ourselves another desolate ten years."  
  
"You knew it," Starling accused, focused on his earlier statement, paying little mind to what was said now.  "You knew what I wanted, else—"  
  
"I knew what I wanted, Clarice.  I've known these long years.  I suspected you wanted the same, even if you hadn't grasped it yet.  I wished it so.  But harboring such unfamiliar sentiments can misplace perception."  He paused.  "I did know you were attracted to me, but attraction is a double- edged sword, and is not enough to break a strong person from everything with which they are familiar."  
  
That she could agree with. A truly strong willed person could overcome the incentive of physical attraction. She had proven that simply by their current telling positions, and this level of duplicity had been accomplished years ago, in the old Baltimore days. Admitting a physical reaction to Dr. Lecter was easy; there was no way she could deny her elevated pulse, quaky knees, rushing adrenaline and thighs she had to keep constantly pushed together. Physical reactions. Nothing she couldn't handle.  
  
This, though, this was taking it far beyond that. And though she had known it for quite some time, knowing and realizing were two different bodies. For Starling, many pieces had flown together in the last meeting before his escape ten years ago; she had chosen to ignore them until now.  
  
I've loved you since Memphis, she thought, wondering how or why she knew, but she did. Funny; though it strained in mind as their most significant encounter to date, even more so than what passed at Chesapeake, falling second only to recent developments, she remembered nothing but sweltering rage of the moment. Being angry though flustered, eyes remaining on him as she was dragged away, until one of the guard's hands coaxed her to turn around. The last glance of him in ten years. Even still, she knew that was it. That was the moment. Since they touched. The touch that perhaps initiated this for them both. I've loved you since Memphis, but that was not enough. That was never enough for me.  
  
There was always something else. She had wanted to be Special Agent Starling more than anything, convinced such a title would grant her the filling for those gaping holes, justify the means of what she endured to reach her plinth. She wanted to reach and grasp something, make it hers, make it love her back.  
  
Perhaps that was the reason she shied from confessing aloud the loss of her unobtainable goal. Something she felt she had given up wanting years ago, gave up wanting but never dreaming. And it was the survival of the dream that kept her from aspiring. What kept her grounded at the same unremitting place.  
  
"So what now?" she asked at last. Her voice was scratchy and hoarse, as though she were on the brink of tears.  
  
"What now? That's up to you, Clarice."  
  
"I'm tired." It wasn't an excuse or a plea for sympathy—more a generalization. A statement.  
  
"I'd suspect so."  
  
"And I'm angry."  
  
"At whom?"  
  
"Myself."  
  
"For being you?" Disapproval rumbled gutturally in the back of his throat. "Clarice, if only you knew how much ahead of the rest of society you are. A shining star among the radicals."  
  
The compliment warmed her, a fleeting sensation that lingered with delicious aftertaste. "Some of our stars are the same," she muttered.  
  
Dr. Lecter's smile was audible. "And they always will be."  
  
"More than not?"  
  
"I've always thought so. There are many stars yet to be discovered."  
  
"Dr. Lecter?"  
  
"Yes?"  
  
She swallowed hard. "Where are you?"  
  
A low hum, neutral. "Now, wouldn't that be telling? Why?"  
  
That insufferable question again. Starling had to curb a growl. "Isn't obvious? I'd like you here."  
  
"There?"  
  
"With me."  
  
"Hmmm." He seemed to consider. "As utterly tempting as that invitation is, Clarice, I don't think it is altogether wise. Not now."  
  
Irritation stabbed brutally and her teeth gnashed, though she did take a minute to note the agonizing familiarity of his words. Not now. However, being one of less candor and patience, Starling could not help plea from escaping her throat, emitting the words he had refused when presented with the same heartbreaking statement. "Why not?"  
  
"I would like to avoid a repeat performance of earlier this evening," he replied. "When I told you I wanted you, Clarice, I meant all of you. Competing for affection becomes tedious after so many years."  
  
"I can't vouch for the future," Starling replied honestly, though she was quite certain of the alternative. "But I know how I feel, and I don't see it going away."  
  
"Of course you don't," he agreed. "Not now. But who can speak for tomorrow? Views wither with age, my dear."  
  
"Yours didn't."  
  
"Yes, but I am always certain of what I want. And while you might not regret the choices you make now for many months, perhaps years, I never want you to wake up looking back at what you missed. What you wish you could do over."  
  
Impatience and susceptibility began to muster again. "Then why am I here?" she growled. "How the hell are we supposed to decide when—"  
  
"When you no longer question yourself, or my motives."  
  
A roll of thunder stole angry words from her tongue, and collecting herself, Starling's teeth clamped on her lip as she counted to ten. The small break allowed her to realize that she was still sopping in rainwater, drying awkwardly in the unhelpful cold of the motel room. She remembered her luggage in the backseat and grasped the keys that lay on the bed without thinking, jingling them together in habit.  
  
"Leaving again, Clarice?" Dr. Lecter asked innocently.  
  
Stepping outside, back into the rain, Starling frowned and had to wonder if there was another motel establishment across the street. She knew he heard the keys dangling, but the unwavering trust in his voice, despite the implication, was enough to put her off balance. Could he see her? Perhaps. Dr. Lecter never second-guessed.  
  
The cars, though, were vacant as she jogged outside. She reminded herself that she brought him here earlier, and that he wouldn't deign to larceny unless he was threatened. That also meant he had to be somewhere close.  
  
Unless he called a cab, she thought.  
  
"No," Starling answered finally, throwing the trunk open and grunting as she heaved one suitcase to the wet pavement. She waited until she was back inside before continuing, fresh water making her shiver. "I'm cold and my clothes are soaked. I'm going to take a shower and change, if that's all right with you."  
  
"Perfectly," he agreed. His tone was warm and amiable. "Though might I suggest running a bath instead? I'd like to continue chatting, if you don't mind."  
  
"While I'm in the tub?"  
  
"The very thought provides especially enticing imagery," Dr. Lecter teased. "I suppose I could always call back later."  
  
Starling smirked, pulling the phone away long enough to drag her sodden shirt over her head. It was consigned to the floor with a mushy flop. "Why the hell not?" she decided when she returned, holding the phone to her ear between her cheek and her shoulder as her hands became busy at her jeans. Her tone adopted a kidding jest almost naturally. By this time, she was used to falling smoothly into place with him, struggling only slightly with tagging behind. "Might as well give you some food for thought." She paused, catching herself. "So to speak."  
  
Starling decided that Dr. Lecter's laugh sounded something like chamber music. "And what delicious thinking it provokes," he observed. "You wicked temptress."  
  
"I learned from the best," she fired back, not missing a beat.  
  
In a small nook beside the lavatory awaited one of the motel's trademark white bathrobes. Casting it over her shoulders to keep warm as the tub filled, she went in to start the water, making sure it was steaming before retreating to recline a few minutes and peruse the channels.  
  
"Television?"  
  
"Just until the tub fills."  
  
"I assume the horrid Mr. Sandler is no longer making a mockery of the opera."  
  
Starling grinned, reaching with her free hand to pull her damp hair from her face, holding it back a minute like a ponytail. "You complain about me not getting enough fun out of life," she observed, "and yet you can find no amusement in things like Saturday Night Live."  
  
"I'll admit to having watched a show or two in the seventies," he replied. "It was enough to last a lifetime."  
  
"That's better, then. The show sucks now." She tucked her legs under her, leaning her weight on one arm. "I always did enjoy Opera Man, though."  
  
"Please, Clarice." A sense of fondness had crept into his tone, though she suspected it was intentional. "Don't you think you better check on your bath?"  
  
"Probably."  
  
The room was steamy, engulfing her with protective warmth. She slipped the robe off her shoulders and sank into the tub, reaching to turn off the faucet. A low hum of approval rumbled through her throat.  
  
"Comfortable?"  
  
"Uh huh." She stretched sumptuously, knowing with as nice as it was, simply talking, that they had to get back on topic. Over the years, Starling became acquainted with the fact that she was not a woman who liked to be taken by surprise, or made to wait indefinitely. Before the discussion was over, she was determined to have an answer, knowing there was otherwise no way she would find sleep tonight. "What now, Doctor?"  
  
"Certainly you don't need me to tell you that." His tone tickled of tease.  
  
She growled. "You know what I mean."  
  
"I wish I could tell you."  
  
"I don't believe you. I think you're enjoying this."  
  
There was a scoff. "Perverse torment as it is, Clarice, you can't honestly believe that our situation is any more fun on my end."  
  
"And you're really not coming?"  
  
"Not yet."  
  
Her back arched in the water, as though flexing a troublesome pain away. "What is it about me?" she asked irritably. "I get all the Miggses and the Krendlers and the Chiltons…but the one man I want, I can't get over here…even if he knows he'd be catching me indisposed."  
  
"You flatter."  
  
"You aggravate."  
  
"You love it."  
  
"I guess I do, in some sick way," Starling retorted dryly. "Why else would I put up with it?"  
  
"The human race is composed of irrational creatures, Clarice," Dr. Lecter replied. "Some motives were meant to never be uncovered."  
  
"Yours?"  
  
"It depends on the motive."  
  
Starling raised her other arm up high, enjoying the feel of water dribbling down her skin, and rested it under her head. "And this one?"  
  
"I believe we have discussed this extensively."  
  
"Well, maybe if you would tell me, I wouldn't be so annoyingly persistent."  
  
Dr. Lecter barked a laugh of interest. "Oh don't be so modest, Clarice. Your persistence is charming."  
  
Her nose wrinkled. "Thanks."  
  
Another laugh. Equally short but genuine, and it made her smile despite the aggravation boiling in her stomach, waiting to erupt. "My dear, do I press your temper?"  
  
"Nah. What gave you that idea?"  
  
"It's the best thing for you right now, you know." And he meant it. Though she knew he would always mean what he said, this struck her as particularly charismatic because Dr. Lecter was the only person who would do something wholly with her in mind, for better or worse.  
  
"I know, I know," Starling agreed, understanding even if she didn't want to. "It's the smart thing to do, even if I don't like it."  
  
"Most things usually fall under that category."  
  
"Yeah, and you're one…no…you're the only person I know who keeps that in mind," she observed, leaning back and closing her eyes. "It's one of the reasons I love you."  
  
A sharp breath caught on the other line, and then there was silence. Starling blinked her confusion, twitching a bit in the absence of dialogue, having grown into it for however long they had chatted. The moment stretched and tautened and would have become uncomfortable had she not spoke up. "Dr. Lecter?"  
  
There was a beat more of silence before she heard him breathe again, slowly, as though tasting his pleasure. When he found his voice, Starling was startled to hear it rumble with passion, just a minute ago controlled and stately. "Use my name, Clarice. You did before."  
  
The request surprised her. Something had changed, noticeably, and she had to backtrack and remember exactly what was passed before her eyes widened in understanding. She had said it. Said it without meaning to, without hesitation or segues. Without considering who might hear her, without trepidation. Even without realizing she what was confessing.  
  
Wants had changed. No more predictions, nor reaching for something while secretly unsure if she was prepared for what she was asking for. She was very frank when she knew exactly what she wanted, and he knew this.  
  
A piece chiseled and fell away. "Hannibal," she murmured.  
  
He sighed and fell silent once more. This time she tolerated it, pulse racing, for she knew what it must mean. The preverbal line was crossed, and the thought was liberating.  
  
"Clarice." By now, Dr. Lecter had reclaimed his control, though she could tell he was fighting for it.  
  
"Hannibal?" Saying his name felt good and it rolled naturally off her tongue, as though she had called him that and nothing else every day of their relationship.  
  
"Get out of the tub."  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Because I am coming over."  
  
Instantly, Starling twisted and stood, reaching for a towel. "Are you sure you want me out of the tub, then?"  
  
"See you soon." The line clicked and went dead.  
  
Starling suddenly felt like a senior on prom night. As she shook excess water from her hair, she was vaguely aware that her stomach was performing a series of impressive flip-flops, though she couldn't pinpoint the cause. Not Dr. Lecter, she didn't think. More likely, it was the knowledge that she was really here; she had crossed that line without any provocation. By herself.  
  
The line was behind her.  
  
Glancing to the mirror after she flipped her hair over her head and back again, Starling thought once she was looking at a woman she didn't know. Eyes were alight in new emancipation, dancing with her realization. Again Dr. Lecter's methods had proven the wiser. And she understood then why he had to wait. Wait for her to come forward without pushing her supportively from behind, guiding her down any path. The admission having escaped from her lips for the first time aloud…  
  
She understood, but didn't want to focus on her understanding and dissect it, as was her habit. Something told her there would be plenty of time for that in the future. As for tonight, though, she felt she had thought enough.  
  
A dry robe replaced the one that now gathered bathwater on the tiles of the restroom. She wrapped her head in the towel, aware of her awkward appearance but not caring. Another glance to the mirror reassured her that she had looked better, but Starling wasn't a woman to primp. However, she decided the addition of the towel was silly and pulled her hair free. Just as she retreated to her suitcase to fish out her brush, three sharp knocks were delivered to the door.  
  
Wow. That was fast.  
  
Starling didn't waste a minute. Abandoning her search, she moved fluidly to the head of the room, grasped the knob and twisted it open.  
  
They stood there for a long, quiet minute, eyes locked in exploration. It seemed it had been forever since she saw him, impossible that it was only earlier that evening. So much had passed and changed. And Starling realized with little insinuation that her journey was for the better. Had she stood here any other time she might have walked away. Not now. Never again.  
  
Hoarsely, she cleared her throat and pulled words out of the air, barely aware that she was speaking. "Where were you?" The question was unimportant but she was curious still. "Where did you go?"  
  
"Upstairs," Dr. Lecter replied softly.  
  
Of course. She guessed his car was up the road a few miles by Shoney's, or better yet, the 7/11. Either way, it didn't matter now.  
  
"You're here," she said, as though surprised.  
  
"I am."  
  
"I'm not leaving again."  
  
This toss was distant and seductive, as though they hadn't spoken in years. Strangers standing together. Strangers that had known each other forever.  
  
"Oh?" Slowly, he took a step forward, then another as she backed up, granting him space until he was completely in the room. Without breaking their gaze, he reached and closed the door behind him. "Are you sure?"  
  
From the dangerous flashing in his eyes, Starling knew that he was asking just to heighten her pulse as he took another step. This time, she didn't attempt to gain it back, instead welcoming closeness. "I'm sure."  
  
His breath ricocheted off her face as his lips neared, softly brushing hers in minimal, unsatisfactory contact. "How can I be sure, Former Agent Starling?" He pulled away just long enough to perk his brows in challenge. "The door is behind me, and rather convenient. Why would you want to stay here?"  
  
Without pausing to consider the answer he was looking for, she held his gaze level and said with heartbreaking sincerity, "Because I love you." She smiled. "And I think I've finally understood that's all that matters."  
  
As the words were uttered again without consternation of her nonexistent loss, she watched as he emitted a sigh and knew she had pushed him over the edge. The thought was tantalizing.  
  
No further provocation was needed. Dr. Lecter claimed her mouth that was itching to accept his kiss, and his arms came around her, crushing her to his body. This time, his lips had the taste of release and freedom, even less reserved for the absence of fear that she would break. Her arms encircled him, pulling him closer as she tried to return that fire, knowing for all of her that this was where she wanted to be.  
  
Her suitcase was relegated to the motel floor in their hurry, upside down as clothes leaked from the sides as she melted into his kiss. The robe soon followed.  
  
* * *  
  
Drifting, drifting…  
  
Drifting off too sleep.  
  
A sleep that would, for once, be without nightmares or foreboding. A sleep that would lead her to the first day of the rest of her life.  
  
What a glorious day it promised to be.  
  
Now, though, nuzzled in the darkness next to the one she loved, Starling thought none of this. Instead, she was intent on how sweetly labored breathing sounded as it receded, how rich was the air that filled her lungs. The cold that once inhabited this room had no place now. A gentle hum vibrated against her ear and she smiled into his chest, shifting her leg that lay across his.  
  
Thoughts collided and jumbled with the thrill of reaction, but she forced herself to remain faithful to the promise that she would not think anymore tonight.  
  
She was rendered wonderfully exhausted.  
  
With a yawn, Clarice Starling finally succumbed to fatigue, slipping away into an irrelevant dreamland. Her last rational thought arose with some finale, making her smile linger and remain long after she was asleep.  
  
It doesn't get any better than this.  
  
  
  
FIN 


End file.
